Haze
by C Cawthorne
Summary: High school is a difficult place, especially when you're at the bottom of the social ladder. But there are worse things out there than jocks, pop quizzes and Dostoevsky. When students start dying, can Dean keep Sam safe?
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Haze

**Author:** C Cawthorn

_Author's note: _This is my first attempt at a serial. It's preseries, so thereshouldn't be any spoilers for the show.I will try to keep the rating to a T, partly by only using language you'd hear on network TV. Feedback might spur me to write faster! Apparently I still do not own Supernatural, Dean, Sam, John, or anything else involved with the WB or the CW.

* * *

_**Prelude**_

Men didn't cry. Not real ones, anyway, so Randy Kay wouldn't.

Wind that wasn't wind howled outside his window. Pebbles, not hail, rained continuously against his bedroom window.

_Come out come out come out come out_

He clapped a hand over one of his ears and reached out for his stereo, pushing the button for his favorite station. Nothing but static. He pushed another preset: static, howling feedback. A third; more static. Cursing, he frantically switched it to CD and pushed play: nothing at all.

_Come out come out come out come out_

"Go away!" He pressed both hands over his ears, but that didn't help when the whispers were already inside his head, nesting like parasites.

The window shuddered in its frame against the onslaught of pebbles. Struggling to his feet, Randy stumbled across the bedroom, tripping on empty beer bottles. He wrenched open his backpack and rooted through it, digging a small, orange plastic bottle with a white cap out of its depths.

_Come out come out come out come out_

Hands shaking, he pried the child-proof cap open and emptied the contents into his hand – six round yellow pills with a cut-out V in the center. They looked like candy. Dropping the pill bottle, Randy made it back to his stereo and grabbed his remaining beer. Seconds later, the last of the Bud chased the Valium down.

He set the bottle down shakily; it tilted, then hit the floor and spun madly, just like all the others had done. Collapsing onto the bed, he curled up and pulled a pillow over his head.

_Come out come out come out come out_

The wind began to slow, until it was little more than a whispered moan. Slowly, slowly, the window stopped shaking, the pebbles dropping into the grass 20 feet below.

Randy never noticed.

* * *

_**September 1996 – Marshalltown, Iowa**_

If Dean could have his way, he'd be working on the car all day instead of being trapped inside school. It was one of those flawless September days made for being outside – warm sun shining in a cloudless blue sky, a breeze off the Iowa River providing just enough coolness to create perfection.

Sitting in a classroom, on the other hand, seemed like torture designed by some particularly cruel fiend. John didn't put much stock in the majority of what was taught in school – one of many fatherly opinions that Dean fervently agreed with – but he still insisted on his sons' attendance. Sam, of course, embraced the instruction with dorkish glee. But as he sat listening to Mr. Gibson drone on about Dostoevsky's _Crime and Punishment,_ Dean couldn't begin to imagine how this was useful to anyone, even if they weren't monster-killing superheroes-in-training.

The ringing of the bell was the sweetest sound in the entire universe (and he'd heard some pretty sweet sounds). Dean jumped up, barely listening to Mr. Gibson's shouted instructions as he shoved his notebook into his beat-up backpack. Something about reading the next chapter and a quiz and yadda yadda. All he cared about was Wednesday afternoon freedom and the chance to give the Impala a well-deserved tune-up.

Dean breezed past a few of the geeky types surrounding the teacher's desk and ducked out river of students sweeping through the hallway. Soon enough he was jogging down the front steps and taking a deep breath of free air. All he had to do was find his loser freshman brother and...

"Hey, Dean," female voices chimed in tandem.

Temporarily forgetting all about Sammy, Dean swiveled in the direction of a cluster of five girls. Cheerleaders, actually. The experienced part of his brain immediately issued a warning of impending trouble. The rest of his brain – well, maybe other organs too – automatically switched on the charm.

"Ladies," he replied, giving them his best smile, and he was not at all deterred when two of them giggled. The one in the center – Bambi or Buffy or something like that – looked like she wanted to devour him where he stood. For that, he'd put up with a few laughs.

"Randy's off the team," she informed him, twirling a blond curl around her finger as she took a few steps toward him. "We think you should try out."

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Football? I don't think so."

"Awww, why not?" she pouted, running well-manicured fingers over his shoulders. "You've certainly got the muscles for it."

His cocky smile grew, even as some of the girls continued to giggle. " 'Cause I don't need to huddle with a bunch of guys wearing tights to convince anyone I'm good in bed."

Two were outraged, one was amused, one was interested, but Dean's words hadn't been for them. They were all for Miss Homecoming Queen here – and her sly smile was a good approximation of a cat who'd just spotted a helpless bird. She took a step forward, right into his personal space, and ran her fingers down so a hand was covering one of the wings on his Aerosmith t-shirt.

"That so?" she purred, then leaned close to whisper in his ear, breath hot on his skin. "Welfare trash like you? You're no one. Dream on, baby."

Dean's expression barely changed as she pushed away – still cocky, still confident – but his green eyes narrowed. "Anytime you get tired of watching your boyfriend play with his balls, you come find me," he replied, his grin slipping from charming to devilish.

"As_ if_!" Rolling her eyes, she spun on her heel and sauntered away. The other cheerleaders made similar noises of disgust and followed.

He watched them all go, chin held high, and was rewarded when the last one – a pretty little brunette with blue eyes – looked back at him over her shoulder speculatively. Tilting his head, he winked at her and won a coy smile in return before she once again turned away. Dean stayed where he was, appreciating the sight of her backside amidst the others.

They were precisely what he'd expected, of course; exactly like every group of cheerleaders at every high school he'd attended. Attitude on legs, better than everyone else – this wasn't the first time Dean had been called trash. His family's poverty automatically put him and Sam at the bottom of the social ladder of every school they had attended.

On the positive side, though, he figured he'd found the girl who'd use him for her 'walk on the wild side' fling. Dean's first experience being the bad boy on the side had hurt, because he'd thought it was the real thing – an illusion she shattered with laughter when he asked her to a school dance. Yeh, that had stung. But now it was kind of fun, sneaking off for a quickie with a pretty cheerleader while her boyfriend was on the practice field, or stealing some time in the back seat.

"Dude, Dean, were those cheerleaders?" It was Sammy, sounding a bit awed as he joined his older brother. "Five cheerleaders?"

"Don't know why that surprises you. Remember," he looked over and pointed at his own face, "chick magnet."

Sammy rolled his eyes, trying to look dubious, but the attempt failed when he looked back wide-eyed at the cluster of girls. "Yeh, but five? What did they want?"

Dean smirked and turned away, yanking the strap of Sam's backpack to get him to follow as he started off for the parking lot. "Me, duh. Oh, and they want me to be on the football team," he added with a laugh.

"Really?" Sam sounded impressed, and Dean preened in it until his little brother continued in a thoughtful voice, "maybe you should."

"You nuts, Sammy? Why would I do that?"

"Well," the younger Winchester replied, "I bet you'd be good. I mean, I know you throw well, and you've gotta be faster and tougher than those guys. And you'd have fun, and you'd make a lot of friends, and–"

"Whoa, stop right there." Dean turned and looked down at his brother, brow furrowing. "One, I don't want to be friends with the football jocks. Two, I've got a lot more important things to do than play football. And you know dad wouldn't go for it."

"Maybe he would," Sam pressed. "If _you_ asked, when he comes back, maybe he would. Then we could stay all year. I like this school, and they have that shop class that you like so much, so he can't say you're not learning something useful."

_There's the truth of it,_ Dean realized. He'd accepted their need to move often when he was years younger than Sam was now – but then again, he'd had more duties at age nine than Sam ever would, at 13 or any other age for that matter. Still, he shouldn't have to remind him of all the reasons behind their mobility; he couldn't anyway, not here on school grounds.

"We'll be here as long as we'll be here; that's just the way it is." He gave his brother a pointed stare and then continued on toward the parking lot. They'd stay here until dad found another hunter to learn from, or until child services started nosing about, or until dad pissed off one too many bosses, or until they'd committed a little too much credit card fraud for comfort. Then it would be time to move on again.

"It'd just be nice," Sammy murmured, then didn't say anything else. Dean hated it when he did that – shut down, all quietly wounded. But he hated it even more that he couldn't give him what he wanted.

Actually, what he really hated was the jerk in the letterman jacket _sitting_ on the Impala's hood.

"Hey, you, off!" he 'suggested' as he strode over, absorbing and evaluating the situation just like his dad had taught him.

The beefy blond teen looked up, and his three friends who'd been leaning against a nearby pick-up meandered over. "Why? It's not like this piece of crap actually runs."

Dean glowered at the insult. "Stay behind me, Sammy," he muttered, dropping his backpack on the ground at his brother's feet and taking a wide stance on the dirt parking lot.

"She runs better than that GM piece of crap ever will," he said, nodding at the truck and the three goons. "Let me say this slow, so you'll understand: Get. Off. My. Car."

The guy using the Impala for a bench – Greg, he remembered now, the quarterback – shifted forward but didn't get up. Dirt and grass from his sneakers were clumping onto the front bumper, a detail that just made Dean angrier. "What, don't like someone messing with your things? Yeh, kinda sucks, don't it?" Greg stomped his foot down none-too-gently on the bumper.

Dean's eyes narrowed and his hands curled into fists. Logically he knew he couldn't take on four football players, but Greg was going to get a dent for each one he put in the Impala, guaranteed.

"Not my fault your girlfriend couldn't keep her hands off me," he taunted. "Though I can see why she's not satisfied."

The quarterback was on his feet and advancing, a fist raised. _So freakin' predictable,_ Dean thought as he prepared to dodge.

"Is there a problem here, gentlemen?" a sharp, authoritative voice rang out.

Everyone froze – Greg, mid-punch; Dean, mid-dodge; goons and Sam, mid-advancement – and looked over at the source of the words.

"Ms. Martin!" Sam exclaimed, recognizing his black-haired history teacher instantly.

"Mr. Winchester," she replied dryly. "I repeat, is there a problem?"

Greg was the first to back down, and once he did his teammates did as well. "No ma'am, no problem."

Dean said nothing, since he definitely had a problem with Greg. But he knew not to push it, not now – and in a way he knew he should be grateful for her interference. Four football players would put him on his ass quick. Sam, at least, was quick to echo Greg's reassurance.

She pinned Dean in place for a moment with a dark gaze, then nodded slowly and let him go, shifting her attention to the athletes. "I didn't think so. You four have football practice; I suggest you go."

As they retreated she looked back at Dean and Sam. "Is this your brother, Sam?"

The younger Winchester started, then nodded. "Yes ma'am. But Dean didn't do anything wrong, they–"

"Fighting for any reason is against the rules. I'm sure you both know that." She aimed her dark eyes at Dean again; she reminded him, somehow, of his father. It wasn't a comfortable realization. Nor did it make sense, given that she was half John's size and at least 10 years his junior. But there was a confidence about her that gave her an authority few teachers possessed – at least not in his experience.

"The next time you have a problem out here, Dean, find a supervising teacher. Today that's me. Understand?"

Dean forced himself to straighten from the defensive posture he'd taken and nodded. "Yes ma'am, I understand," he said, meeting her gaze without flinching... but also without challenging her. He knew better than to cause this kind of trouble with a teacher. It was one thing to mouth off in class, but another thing to come off as a thug. Then she'd start looking into his records, then Sam's, and that was the way trouble started.

"Good. Get going, then. Sam, at least, has a lot of homework." She offered a smile to Sam, who smiled shyly back.

"C'mon, Sammy, time to go home." Dean scooped his backpack up and unlocked the Impala's doors.

"Bye, Ms. Martin," Sam said, then scampered over to the car, throwing his bag in the backseat along with Dean's.

Already ensconced in the front seat, Dean was hunting through his box of cassettes and trying not to scowl too fiercely. He found exactly what he wanted as Sam buckled in. He popped it into the player, then revved the engine to life and backed expertly out of the spot.

The song wasn't meant for Ms. Martin – Greg and his cohorts were unfortunately too far to hear it now. But Dean still glanced at her and smiled as he cranked the volume and drove away, the raw-edged guitar riffs of Motörhead blaring over the engine.

_Come on baby, eat the rich,_

_Put the bite on the son of a bitch,_

_Don't mess around, don't give me no switch,_

_C'mon baby eat the rich_

_C'mon baby eat the rich_

**(end chapter one)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Haze

**Author: **C Cawthorne

_Author's note:_ Hope this lives up to expectations! This is pre-series, so I don't think there are any spoilers. I'm still trying to keep the rating to a T, partly by only using language and violence you'd hear and see on network TV. Apparently I still do not own Supernatural, Dean, Sam, John, or anything else involved with the WB or the CW. Ms. Martin and the rest of the supporting cast do belong to me.

Feedback might spur me to write faster!

* * *

_**Chapter Two**_

"How's your wrist?" Dean asked as he unlocked the door to their one-story, perfectly square rented house. It was identical, down to the weathered and peeling paint, to every house on this and several surrounding blocks. Sometimes he thought the sole reason he could identify it at all was because theirs was the only one lacking either a yard full of trash or heartfelt attempts at beautification.

"It's stiff. I'm just glad it's my left, not my right." Sam followed his brother in, keeping his backpack on even as Dean dumped his on the floor.

"Yeh, heaven forbid you get excused from taking a test because you can't write." The older Winchester rolled his eyes as he locked the door behind them. "Honestly dude, your priorities are all screwed up."

"I need to be able to take notes," Sam huffed as he made his way through their shabby living room to the kitchen, setting his backpack on the table as he passed.

Dean grinned and shook his head, but didn't follow. Instead he took the cannister of salt that always sat by the door and reinforced the protective line stretching across their house's main entry. It was one of the first protections John had discovered in his fight against things that went bump in the night, and they'd performed the ritual ever since. When he was away, it fell to Dean to keep all those lines across the doors and windows solid.

Clinking sounds emanated from the kitchen; he set the salt down and strolled through the living room, easily avoiding the sparse furniture that didn't begin to fill it. It contained a beat-up sofa and the table they ate at – all of which had been here when John rented the house – and the crappy tv set that was a concession to family sanity. Dean barely glanced at his surroundings as he passed through, taking just enough time to make sure everything was where it was supposed to be. Or, more importantly, that nothing was here that _wasn't_ supposed to be.

"You've got it wrong, Sammy," he announced as he entered the small kitchen. At the fridge, his brother growled, but Dean was undeterred. "You don't want to be able to take notes."

Sam straightened and turned, carton of milk in one hand and sandwich makings in the other. "Just because you don't want–"

"Listen to wisdom when it is given, young wolf cub," he intoned, mimicking the tone of countless wise Indian Chiefs in old westerns. "If it was your right hand, you could have turned those big brown eyes of yours onto any girl in class and asked her if she'd share her notes with you – or even take notes for you. You'd have had girls falling all over you. I can just see it."

He struck a pose, putting his hands on his face and batting his eyes as he spoke in falsetto. _"Oh, Sammy, let me help you. No, **I** want to help him! Why don't you come over to my place to... study?"_

A plastic-wrapped slice of American cheese sailed straight at his face; Dean ducked easily, chuckling. "See, you could have used the opportunity – _(he ducked another piece of cheese)_ – to be a babe magnet. But nooo!"

Sam was glaring, but the corners of his mouth curved up even as he held a third slice of cheese like a throwing star. "Dean, that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. And you've said some stupid things."

"You're too young to understand. Just remember – _I'm_ the one who had five cheerleaders flirting with me, not you. That makes me the expert." He cocked his head smugly; that little incident was going to be useful for months, even if he was lying through his teeth about what happened. It was worth the cheerleader mockery just to see his little brother struggling in vain to come up with a way to refute what he thought he'd seen.

"Tell you what," Dean said, sauntering over to the fridge. He nudged Sam out of the way and grabbed a Mountain Dew. "The next time you decide to fall out of a tree, break your impact with your right hand and give it a try."

"Jerk." The third piece of cheese hit Dean right between the shoulder blades.

"Klutz." Grinning, he shut the refrigerator door and checked the answering machine on the counter. No messages. Picking up the receiver, he looked back at his brother as he dialed. "You know what dad says about wasting food."

Emitting the most put-upon and persecuted sigh, Sam moved to collect the pieces of cheese he'd thrown.

John answered the call on the third ring. "Dean. How are you and Sam?"

"We're good; nothing to report. Have you found it yet?"

"Not a sign of it. Thing's smarter than an angiak should be – I think it's gone to ground." Dean could hear the frustration; it was a low growl underscoring his dad's already gruff voice. "I'll be staying until I find it. You and your brother got what you need?"

"Yessir."

"Good. How's Sammy's wrist?"

He glanced over at his brother, who was finishing constructing a sandwich – and who was obviously listening to every word Dean said. "He says it's a little stiff. We're keeping it wrapped, but I bet he'll be good to go by the weekend."

Sam flinched and shook his head emphatically 'no.' Dean looked at him, brow furrowed, but said nothing as John spoke.

"Good; I need as many eyes as I can on this thing, so we can get it before it starts killing. Check in tomorrow, and give me a call before you head out Friday."

"Yessir; we'll see you then."

A click told him his dad had hung up. Dean returned the ancient phone – it had to be at least twice his age, and had also come with the house – back to the counter.

"I can't go," Sam declared, turning to face his brother. "We've got a group project to work on; I'm supposed to go to Akio's house on Saturday."

Dean shrugged helplessly. "Sorry, Sammy, you know we have to go. What teacher is this for? I'll talk to them–"

"No." The declaration was surprisingly firm. "I want to stay here. You don't need me anyway. If we do find it, dad'll just make me sit in another tree while you two kill it."

He couldn't speak for a moment – wasn't it just a few months ago that Sam was begging to go on hunts? – and finally shook his head.

"Dad needs us to back him up; you know that." He leaned against the counter, hooking his thumbs into his jean pockets. "You read up on this thing – it's small, but if it keeps feeding on people it'll be able to kill."

Sammy just scoffed and crossed his arms across his chest. "You know dad can handle an angiak in his sleep."

"Which makes it a good hunt for you to come on," Dean pointed out patiently. "You get on-the-job training without getting mauled by a werewolf or spirited away by a phantom. Hell, this could be your first solo kill. And you can help dad research, figure out who created the damned thing in the first place. You know, all that boring book and newspaper stuff you like so much."

"I know, I know. I just..." Sam grimaced, turned away and screwed the lid back on the jar of mayo. "I like it here. I've already got friends, and they're counting on me. And I wanna do well."

Dean watched his brother, whose eyes were studying the counter top as his shoulders sagged. "Look, um, maybe dad will get the thing before we have to go," he offered. It was all he had to give.

"Yeh, maybe." Sammy returned the sandwich materials to the fridge, then picked up his glass of milk and his plate and headed out to the table. "I've got homework."

Dean let him go, deciding to run a hand through his hair instead of following. There wasn't a question of them staying here; he knew John wasn't going to excuse Sam from a hunt just because of some silly group project. Sam's 14th birthday had been the start of his full-time participation in hunting trips, and like it or not they were more important than school. Dean figured Sammy would suss it out eventually – though he couldn't help but hope it happened soon.

He knew he still needed to get the name of that teacher, but it could wait until later when his brother was in a better mood. Instead, Dean chugged some of his soda and cut through his dad's paper-coated room on the way to the one he shared with Sam. There he changed into a ratty pair of jeans – one of several pairs that could only be worn for certain occasions, considering they'd been variably slashed, burned, bled on or (the worst, in Dean's opinion) slimed. He pulled off the Aerosmith shirt and replaced it with a grease-stained wifebeater, stuck a silver folding knife (the one his dad gave to him on his eighth birthday) in his back pocket, then exited into the livingroom.

"I'm gonna work on the car," he announced to Sam's hair – his brother had almost literally buried his face in a book.

"Don't you have homework?"

"Yeh, like I care about my lit class," he said with a laugh. "Anyway, I got the Cliff's Notes."

That comment drew Sammy's eyes off the page, just like Dean knew it would. "It wouldn't hurt you to read it. You _might_ even like it."

"Whatever, geek. Why don't you read it for me and we'll see if you still believe that." Dean grinned. "My baby needs an oil change. _Priorities, _Sammy."

His younger brother exhaled, obviously irritated, and looked back at his books. Still smiling, Dean opened the door and stepped carefully over the salt line. "I'll be right outside. Yell if you need me."

The day was as nice now as it had been when beckoning through the school's windows. Happy with the prospect of getting his hands dirty, he unlocked the utility bin at the side of the house and quickly retrieved what he needed – tools, pan, funnel, rags, oil filter, oil, and a few other supplies. He also set up the battered boom-box he'd scavenged and repaired; soon enough Led Zeppelin was making the day even better. The Impala's engine was still warm enough, so he slid under the car and began to work.

Those quick-lube places would have had the job done in 20 minutes, but Dean knew better. He did the job right, which meant letting the oil drain for an hour as he puttered around under the hood, checking belts and battery and everything else. His father was an excellent mechanic and he'd always been a good teacher – Dean had absorbed everything John could tell him. The Impala had saved their lives before, and she deserved the best care. Besides, he was hoping she'd be his – and only his – someday, and that wouldn't happen until he proved he was worthy.

He was back under the car, threading the drain plug and grooving to _When the Levee Breaks,_ when a voice came out of nowhere. "Mr. Winchester?"

He jolted so suddenly that he hit his head on the newly replaced oil pan. "Crap!"

"Can I talk to you please?" It was a woman's voice; through the stars dancing in his eyes Dean could barely make out a pair of slacks and no-nonsense shoes. He didn't sense a threat; just in case, though, he wiped his hand on his jeans so his grip wouldn't be too slippery on the knife.

"Yeh, sure," he said gruffly, shimmying out from under the Impala, his shirt riding up as he finally won free. He blinked when he saw who was standing over him. "Ms. Martin?"

The teacher looked completely perplexed for a moment, then smoothed the expression into a friendly but uninformative smile. "Sorry, Dean. I thought you were your father. Is he in?"

_She's kind of pretty, _he decided as he looked up at her, wiping his hands on a nearby rag. _But she shouldn't be here._

"Sorry ma'am; he's at work. Is there something I can do for you?" He pushed himself to his feet and tugged his shirt into place, knowing better than to expose his more interesting scars to a teacher. They could be as bad as social workers.

"Will he be home soon, or does he work nights?" she asked, her dark eyes finding his green ones and locking on them uncannily. It wasn't going to be easy to lie to her, Dean realized immediately. It was probably a good thing he wasn't in her class.

"No ma'am, he had to travel; he won't be back today." He decided that half-truths would be better than lies, at least when it came to Ms. Martin. "But I can pass on a message; dad's always as involved in our schooling as he can be."

The teacher nodded and looked at the house; he had a feeling she was searching for any evidence of a woman living there. Then again, her presence meant she'd probably read his or Sammy's files and knew no mother was listed. Maybe she was just now realizing the poverty surrounding her. He frowned slightly, and started to look away.

"Is your father away often?" she asked, drawing his attention back.

Dean was struck again by how pretty she was, even in her decidedly unsexy and plain black pants and blue blouse. He decided it was something about the way her lips curved.

"Sometimes he has to travel for work," he non-answered. "All due respect, ma'am, I'm 17. I can take care of Sam for a day or two."

"Dean, your brother has already missed two days of school in the first four weeks. Do you understand why I'm concerned?"

He straightened, tension blossoming in his shoulders. _It's already happening?_ he wondered. Usually they got a few months, sometimes even half a school year, before teachers started digging and they had to move on.

"Both times it was unavoidable, ma'am. He was sick the first time, and Sunday we were stuck all evening in the emergency room making sure he hadn't broken his wrist. But Sammy's smart; he'll catch up with whatever he missed. He's inside right now, doing his homework. Believe me, Ms. Martin, he won't fall behind."

He could tell she was weighing every word and trying to see if anything lurked behind his reassuring expression. After an uncomfortable stretch of silence she finally nodded. "Okay, Dean. Please tell your father I stopped by. I'd like to meet him when he has the time."

"I'll do that," he promised, though he didn't know if he would keep his word. If he did, there probably wouldn't be any meeting – they'd be moving as soon as their dad could arrange it. And while Dean was more accepting of their gypsy life than Sam was, it didn't mean he didn't like stability when he could get it.

"Good. Now, are you having trouble with Greg?"

The abrupt change in subject startled him; he shook his head automatically. "No ma'am. Nothing I can't handle – by the rules, I mean." He hastily amended his words when he saw her eyes flash.

Her mouth tightened a little, those pretty curves flattening. "Tell me or any other teacher if you do. We have strict rules against fighting – and against bullying."

"I'm not–" He started to deny what he interpreted as an accusation, then paused when he realized her meaning.

"Wait, you think _I'm_ being bullied?" Grinning, he shook his head and spread his hands out in front of him. "Look, Ms. Martin, it's nice you're concerned, but I can take care of myself. I'm bully-proof."

She gave him a look of complete skepticism, but she didn't voice it. "Just remember what I said. I'll see you tomorrow at school, Dean."

"Yes ma'am."

He watched her as she walked away, looking for the nice figure he just _knew_ lurked under those boring clothes. She looked back at him as she slid into her two-door VW Golf, and Dean transformed speculation into a smile, then waved. He figured a little Winchester charm wouldn't hurt. _Hell, maybe it'll even help._

Still, he didn't turn away until she rounded the corner and drove out of sight. He wasn't certain what course to take – his dad would freak and Sammy would start worrying if he mentioned any of this. Dean didn't want to deal with either right now. Maybe he could smooth it down on his own without getting them involved.

_Yeh, right._ He looked over his shoulder toward the house, then back down the street, and came to the conclusion that he had to try. Maybe he could convince John to let Sammy stay with a friend this weekend?

_And Naomi Campbell is going to teach math tomorrow. Dream on._

But for Sam he'd try. He always did.

* * *

_**Interlude**_

Wayne Crofton sat on a secluded bank of the river, working on his sixth beer. Earlier the whole team got the news from Coach Daniels about Randy trying to kill himself.

"Makes no sense," he muttered, and not for the first time. That had been the conclusion of the small group that had gathered by the river after practice. Greg had called them together for an impromptu toast to the team's best wide receiver, and Wayne and Tom had brought the beer, like always. But Randy wasn't here to drink it this time.

"It's crap. There's no way." Wayne picked up an empty can and chucked it into the river.

It was well past midnight and he was well past buzzed. Tom had tried to pull him up onto his feet, to take him home when the other guys had finished their alcohol-infused memorial. Wayne wouldn't budge. His parents wouldn't care if he was out all night, and even if they did he wasn't going to move. Randy deserved more than just a few hours' tribute. The others hadn't grown up on the same block, like he and Randy had. They'd been friends since kindergarten. Now his best friend was in a coma, on life support.

Wayne slammed back the rest of his beer and threw that can into the river too, then struggled to his knees so he could get another from the cooler that was annoyingly out of reach. He didn't remember it being so far away, or that he'd put it so close to the water, but he didn't really care as long as there was beer left in it.

A sudden shove sent him tumbling face-first into a foot of warm, lazy river water. Sputtering, he struggled to his hands and knees.

"Tom, what the f–"

Hands on his shoulders – cold hands, _icy_ hands – shoved him back down. His open mouth filled with water and muddy river sand, and he lost all thoughts as he choked, kicked, and struggled.

Then the hands were gone. He barely got his head above water before he was retching mud. He knew he should move, crawl back to dry land, but he was a prisoner to his spasming lungs and heaving stomach. Vulnerable – he felt so terrifyingly vulnerable, but all he could do was tremble and retch.

The ice-cold fingers that dug into his shoulders a third time chilled his skin and soul. Wayne was underwater again, and this time he coughed, drawing water into his lungs. It burned in a way water had no right doing. Drowning wasn't supposed to hurt like this – in the movies people just slipped away, right? – but all he felt was the crushing fire in his chest.

_Drink it up._ The voice flowed through water and into his ears undistorted.

His eyes shot open, blind in dark water.

_Drink it up._

It was all he could do. And, after an eternity of seconds, floating face down in a foot of calm water, Wayne Crofton stopped doing even that.

**(end chapter two)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Haze

**Author:** C Cawthorne

**Note: **Sorry for the delay! This would have been up yesterday if my file hadn't pulled a disappearing act. Thank goodness for backups! As always, I don't own Dean (he owns me) or Sam or the Impala or anything else from _Supernatural._ The original characters are mine. While I am using a real town, everything else is pure imagination. Feedback is encouraged, nay, begged for!

* * *

_**Chapter 3**_

"Hmm. You didn't seem like the staying-after-school-to-do-homework type."

Dean looked up from his chemistry textbook — the top of his pen resting forgotten between his teeth — and grinned. The flirty brunette from yesterday stood across the picnic table from him, wearing a tight pink t-shirt and a black skirt that just _had_ to be too short for the dress code.

"I'm not. Just waiting for my geek brother to get out of chess club." He shut the book and put the pen down, never taking his eyes from her heart-shaped face. "What're you still doing here?"

She considered her answer for a moment, blue eyes sparkling. "I left some things in my gym locker. Want to walk me over there?"

"I could do that," he agreed, shoving book, notebook, and pen into his backpack, then standing. "So what's your name?"

She smirked as he rounded the table. "Wouldn't you like to know." Turning, she walked off; Dean fell in at her side, his backpack slung over a shoulder.

"What, you're not gonna tell me?" He laughed when her grin proved him right. He decided that she was pretty much perfect, with her attitude, her long brown hair and that athletic cheerleader's body. "Okay. Guess I get to name you, then. How about… Naomi?"

"Try again," she suggested as they walked around the side of the school.

"Kate?"

"No."

"Claudia?"

She laughed. "Where are you getting these?"

Dean shrugged, but his expression was one of pure, mischievous flirtation. "Considering how pretty you are I figure you probably have a supermodel name."

"That's ridiculous," she giggled, giving his arm a shove. Her eyes weren't nearly so dismissive, though; they told Dean to keep going.

"Well, until you tell me I have to keep guessing. Gisele? Christie? How about-"

"Mariah," she interrupted.

"Ah, okay, a singer instead of a model. That works." Not that he could stand Mariah Carey's music — nor would he ever listen to her voluntarily — but he knew who she was just by attending high school.

She rolled her eyes but wrapped a hand around his arm. "Come on."

They'd gotten around the far corner of the school; now the empty football field spread out before them. Dean glanced around, soaking in his surroundings. No teachers, no football players, not even any cheerleaders — no one here to interrupt them. Mariah led him forward toward the field, not to the left toward the gym entrance, and that caught his interest.

"Where're we going?"

"Somewhere we can talk," she answered mysteriously, tugging his arm again. He followed willingly, seeing no reason not to, and then spotted what he hoped was their destination: one of several large, sturdy bleachers that ringed the field.

And that was exactly where they went. It was a big structure, solid wood on the top and the sides with an open back, the whole thing freshly painted in bright shades of green and gold. Underneath, though…

It was already a grey day, the sun obscured by clouds threatening evening rain. As she led him under the wooden structure the light dimmed considerably — halfway in it was twilight, and back where the bleachers met the ground it was dark as night.

"Nice place," he commented, scanning the darkness for movement. It was quiet here, almost strangely so, but their only company seemed to be empty bottles, cigarette butts, and broken sports equipment. Dean wouldn't be surprised to find used condoms either, but he didn't look that closely. There weren't any threats here — there was a flirty cheerleader leading him into the dim midsection, however, and she commanded all his attention.

"I like it," she said, leaning against a wall and watching him with bright eyes. She was sizing him up again; Dean casually dropped his backpack and hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans.

"Come here often?" he asked, sizing her up right back.

"Only when I have a reason to." Twirling a lock of hair around a finger, she beckoned him closer. He didn't obey immediately, which apparently pleased her; her smile flashed in the still twilight. "I won't bite."

He smirked and walked over slowly. "What if I want you to?" He knew where they were, exactly why she'd brought him, and for once he found himself hoping that Sammy's chess club would run late.

"Then you'll have to play nice." She reached out and ran her hands across his chest and down his sides, drawing him closer until only a few inches of air separated them. "Brandi's right, you should try out for the team."

"Don't want to," he breathed, lowering his face but not kissing her yet.

Mariah exhaled, breath hot on his skin. "Sometimes teachers check under here," she warned, her eyes half shutting and her hands sliding down to his waist.

"Don't care," he rumbled, then claimed the kiss she was offering. She met his mouth hungrily and after a few moments yielded her mouth to his for an even deeper kiss, her tongue battling with his for dominance.

"God, you're so much better," she murmured when they both broke for breath.

"Better than who?" he asked, slipping a hand onto her slender waist and sliding it up slowly.

"My boyfriend." The words were a challenge, her blue eyes searching his face for a reaction.

"Boyfriend, huh?" His hand continued its slow slide up her shirt as he rested his other hand against the wall, leaning in casually. "Let me guess, quarterback?"

"No." She laughed, pressing herself closer. "Joel. Wide receiver."

Dean just grinned and took her dare, his fingers brushing across the underwire of her bra and then up soft flesh, taking full advantage of the liberties she granted and wondering just how far she'd let him go. "Guess Joel wouldn't like me doing this, huh?"

She shivered as a sigh escaped her. "He'll kill you."

"He can try." He kissed her again and took a step forward, until her back was against the wall and nothing separated them.

A bottle crashed against the wood above their heads, raining glass down on them. Mariah shrieked and Dean cursed, pulling her head into his chest and shutting his eyes tight against the sharp shards. As the last of it slid off his shoulders he spun, putting himself squarely between the cheerleader and…

Nothing?

"What the hell?" Dean looked around quickly, but still found nothing. No one shared their dim, dusty hiding place, and no one stood outside. And the absence of anything obvious was far more worrisome to Dean than an angry boyfriend.

"Who's there?" Mariah demanded, sliding out from behind him.

"Wait," he said, but it was too late. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a bottle levitate off the ground and shoot toward them. There was no time for delicacy — he pushed her to the ground, once more covering her body as the glass shattered and sharp shards rained down. She shrieked again, but Dean didn't care. The next bottle hit him hard in the ribs; he clenched his teeth as pain radiated across his side.

"Son of a bitch!" Scrambling to his knees, he tried to pull her up. "We need to get out of here, into the light. Go!"

"Who's doing this?" she cried, her eyes wide and white as she looked frantically around.

"Doesn't matter; just go!" He urged her forward, giving her a push in the right direction. She struggled up and took two steps forward before her feet were yanked out from under her. Falling forward, she screamed as she was dragged back to the black depths of the bleacher, hands scrabbling at dirt and dead grass.

"Mariah!" Dean launched himself forward, grabbing both of her wrists. "Hold on! Come on, pull!"

She cried out again, tears in her eyes as she was tugged in two directions. But she wrapped her hands around Dean's wrists and pulled. She was strong, and he was stronger, but for a desperate moment he felt them both sliding toward the blackness. Then his leg hit something solid and metal; he hooked his foot around it and brought them to a sudden stop.

It did the trick. Whatever was pulling at Mariah stopped; she scrambled to her feet before he could even say anything and ran like the devil was chasing her (which, Dean reflected, might not be a faulty assessment). Pushing himself up into a crouch next to the metal support that had saved them, Dean scoured the blackness in front of him, determined to stay between the cheerleader and whatever was hiding in the darkness.

"Where are you?" he growled, reaching for his knife before remembering it wasn't there. The school had metal detectors at every entrance; he couldn't bring a weapon in if his life depended on it — and right now it did. Something flickered in the darkness, something white/blue, unformed and erratically shifting.

"Oh, crap." Dean jumped to his feet and turned to run. Then something icy cold wrapped around his ankle. Calf muscles convulsed painfully, depriving him of any support, and he fell hard. Only by twisting quickly did he end up on his back instead of helplessly on his stomach. Kicking and cursing proved useless as ice inched up his leg, and now it was his turn to be dragged toward the darkness, pebbles and clumps of dirt and what had to be a piece of broken glass digging into his skin as his shirt rode up.

His hand encountered a bottle; he threw it at his invisible assailant without any noticeable effect. Desperately, Dean stretched out both hands in search of anything that could remotely be used as a weapon, even as his captured foot all but disappeared into the darkness. The thought of disappearing down some ghost vortex terrified him more than he'd admit.

Fingers brushed against metal. Dean didn't think; he just grabbed the bar like the lifeline it was and stabbed at the space over his trapped foot. The air shifted, flickered blue, and shattered with a howl that echoed in his ears.

He didn't waste time looking. He crawled back frantically, and as soon as he had even a little room to stand he got up and ran, snatching his backpack on the way out. Only when he was 10 feet away from the bleacher did he turn, breathing hard and gripping the bar like a sword.

Nothing there — just the debris-strewn shadowed ground and tiered roof. Then he saw it, a transparent and vaguely human shape crouching in the darkness. Dean raised the bar defensively even as he rooted desperately through his bag for salt, the one weapon capable of evading the metal detectors. The shape flickered; then it was gone.

Dean stood rooted to the spot for a few moments, waiting for it to return, until he heard a rumble of thunder. Looking west, he saw a dark bank of clouds moving in. Realizing that the only thing keeping him safe was weak sunlight filtering through the clouds above, he turned and walked hurriedly away, glancing behind and around as he left. No sign of Mariah, no sign of the ghost.

At least he was pretty certain the girl was safe. He wanted to talk to her, figure out what that was. He _really_ wanted his dad to appear out of the blue with a map to a grave, a shovel, and a supply of salt and lighter fluid, but that was impossible. Dean wanted that ghost dead. But he wasn't supposed to hunt alone and nor, he realized suddenly, did he want to. Feeling utterly helpless was not something he wanted to experience again.

By the time he rounded the side of the school he'd gotten his breathing under control and had plucked the piece of glass out of his skin. The cut stung fiercely, but it was shallow, and he had to be grateful for that. _If dad didn't believe in tetanus shots we'd all be dead by now. _His right leg still ached, a cold pulse lingering in his veins, but at least he could walk. He knew he was a mess, but at least he had 20 minutes before Sam was out of…

"Dean, what happened?"

He rolled his eyes — just his luck that the club ended early. He waved wearily as Sam trotted over, and then looked down at himself. He was covered in dirt, his jeans had a new rip in them, and he only now realized that he was still gripping the metal bar that had saved him. It looked like a strut from an old iron fence, rusty and dirty. He repressed a shudder, knowing exactly how lucky he'd been.

"Tripped," he said, trying to cover his fright with normal nonchalance.

It didn't work. Sammy's eyes narrowed. "Yeh, right, _you?_ What happened?"

Dean hesitated; he didn't want to share what had happened. School was supposed to be safe, at least from the creatures that they hunted. But Marshalltown High School apparently didn't play by the rules, and that meant his brother needed to know the danger.

"Not here. I'll tell you on the way home." Frowning, he set off toward the parking lot, shoving his brother along in front of him.

"Hey!" Sammy protested, tripping on his gangly legs and grabbing Dean to steady himself.

"We're gonna get soaked. Move your ass."

The rain started falling right as they reached the lot; a quick run had them inside the Impala before either suffered more than a few big drops. Dean dropped the rod onto the back floorboards, ignoring the curious look Sam shot him, and pulled out onto the street as the storm broke over them.

"There's a ghost under the bleachers," he said tersely, stopping at a red light and taking the opportunity to rub some warmth back into his leg.

"What?" Sammy's eyes widened. He glanced at Dean's dirty Motley Crüe shirt, then to the backseat, even though he couldn't see the bar anymore. Any temptation he might have had to scoff disappeared from his face. "What happened? What did it want?"

He shook his head. "I don't know, but Casper sure wasn't friendly. It's under the bleachers around the football field, so you don't go near them. Got that?"

"What were you doing under the bleachers?"

"Sammy." His warning was gruff and very similar to John's tone when he got annoyed with his sons.

"Okay, don't worry, I don't want to be a ghost snack." The younger Winchester glared at him, then glanced out the window at the pouring rain. "So what do we do?"

Dean's hands tightened on the wheel. "Nothing. We wait for dad."

"Nothing? What if someone gets hurt? We need to-"

"Then someone gets hurt," he interrupted. "This thing's dangerous, Sammy. Dad will have our hides if we take it on."

Sam nodded, but Dean spotted the look in his younger brother's eyes — he could almost see the wheels turning. "What?"

"Why did it go after you? It would need a reason, right? Something you did, or somewhere you went. Maybe just something you said. What if-"

"It wasn't after me at first," he explained. "I just got in the way."

"Oh." Sam grinned; apparently Dean had played the hero card again, this time without meaning to. "Who were you with?"

"Mariah."

"Mariah?"

"Cheerleader."

"Oh." Sam paused; his eyes went wide as he put two and two together. "_Oh!_"

Dean allowed himself to smirk.

"So… you think it was after her?" Sam asked after he recovered.

"Right in one."

"Wow." Another pause filled the car with the sound of rain; then Sam smiled again, this time triumphantly. "Only you would get a make-out session interrupted by a ghost."

"Shut it, Sammy." Reaching over to the dash, he flicked on the stereo and cranked it loud, Metallica drowning out anything else the brat had to say.

_ Master of Puppets I'm pulling your strings _

_ Twisting your mind and smashing your dreams _

_ Blinded by me, you can't see a thing _

_ Just call my name, 'cause I'll hear you scream!_

_ Master, Master _

_ Just call my name, 'cause I'll hear you scream!_

They pulled into their cracked driveway soon after and both made a dash to the door.

"You've gotta tell dad," Sam said, shaking rain out of his hair as Dean reinforced the salt line.

"I will, but you know what he'll say. Anyway, it was just the one time; the angiak's a higher priority." He set the salt down and tossed his backpack a few feet away.

"I don't know… what if there's more to it?"

Sam sounded pensive enough that Dean turned to face him. "What've you heard?"

"Nothing specific." Sam shrugged and placed his pack on the table. "But chess club ended early because Mr. Wilson got called away for some emergency meeting. And when I was out in the hall I saw a lot of other teachers heading toward the lounge. They looked worried."

"They did, huh?" Dean played it cool, not wanting to admit that there might be something to this but knowing there probably was. "Overhear anything?"

Sam shook his head.

"Huh. Well, keep your ears open. I'm gonna call dad." He headed for the kitchen, fingering the new rip in his jeans and wondering if he was going to have another argument with John about how uncool it was to go to school in patched-up and mended denim.

The message machine was blinking on the counter; Dean leaned against yellow-brown formica and immediately thought better of it when his bruised side protested. Grimacing, he hit play; the tape rewound quickly. _Probably a wrong number._

"Don't call, don't come."

It was unmistakably their father's voice. Mouth gaping, he hit play again.

"Don't call, don't come."

"Dad, what?" Dean pushed the 'save' button and stared at the machine, not knowing what to think or do about the terse command.

"Was that dad?" Sam asked as he stepped into the room.

He blinked and looked up. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, sounds like." He ran a hand through his hair.

"Sounds like? Dean, what did he say?"

"That we shouldn't go out there tomorrow." Seeing the smile that automatically blossomed on Sam's face, he added, "and we're not supposed to call him either."

The happiness washed off Sam's face. "Something's wrong. What do we do?"

"I don't know," he admitted, then reached over and turned the volume up on the machine before playing the message again. "You hear that?"

"Yeah," Sammy breathed, leaning in next to Dean against the counter. "Doesn't sound like EVP."

"No, it doesn't." He bent his ear closer to the machine and listened for a fourth time. "Sounds like people talking. Can't tell what they're saying. Wherever he is, he's somewhere with people."

"Hospital?" Sammy's eyes were wide and worried.

"Didn't sound like it," Dean replied, though in truth he'd thought the same thing at first. "No intercoms or beeping. Anyway, he said don't come. He wouldn't say that if he was hurt."

"Yeah, I guess," Sam agreed dubiously. Biting his lip, he looked down at his shoes. "Maybe he's in trouble."

"He could be," he agreed, resisting the urge to say it was nothing, just their dad playing out some childless identity he'd assumed to get needed information. Coddling Sam was a habit John had been encouraging him drop for years, and Dean realized this really wasn't the time for puppies and rainbows.

"Look, Sammy, go do your homework. I'll call Pastor Jim — he can help."

"But I-"

"I'll tell you everything I learn. Promise." Sam finally nodded. Dean smiled and plucked at his filthy shirt, where it was sticking to his wounded back. "Okay. I'm gonna change, then I'll start making calls."

Dean turned away and cut through John's room on the way to his own. Now that he wasn't in front of his brother he let his defenses slip, just a little. Knowing that he'd scare Sam barely kept his own fear bottled inside. His dad was in trouble — so much trouble that he didn't want them there — and only the direct order was keeping him from stuffing Sammy into the Impala and driving over there right now.

Instead they were staying here, where a ghost was haunting their school. Sammy was supposed to be safe in his classes; it was the sole reason Dean felt confident leaving him on his own all day. There was only so much salt he could stuff into Sam's backpack, and now who knew when their dad would get back? The teachers weren't going to let him follow his brother around all day.

He stripped off his filthy clothes and tossed them into the laundry basket. He was going to have to figure out who this ghost was. One of the 10 Winchester Commandments was _no hunting without dad,_ but Dean figured he wouldn't really be ignoring orders just by figuring out who the ghost was so they could avoid it. That wasn't hunting; that was just… researching.

Dean couldn't help grinning just a little as he pulled a clean — well, cleaner — t-shirt on over his jeans. John was always criticizing him for not taking research seriously. So he couldn't get mad about this, right?

But the short-lived smile faltered as he walked back to the kitchen.

"Don't call, don't come."

He could hear the tape rewind, then Sammy listened to it again. "Don't call, don't come."

Suddenly Dean felt like he was in way over his head.

**(end chapter three)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: **Haze

**Author: **C Cawthorne

_Author's note: _Sorry this is so late. I meant to have it out mid-week, but writing it was like pulling teeth. Then I realized it was so difficult because it simply wasn't good, so I cut a few pages, rewrote others, and took it in a slightly different direction. I think the result is much better! Head's up:a bit more cursing in this chapter.

As always, I don't own Dean (he owns me) or Sam or the Impala or anything else from _Supernatural._ The original characters are mine. While I am using a real town, everything else is pure imagination. Feedback is encouraged, nay, begged for!

* * *

_**Chapter 4**_

"Come on Sammy, we're gonna be late!" Dean bellowed as he triumphantly grabbed the prize he'd been hunting for from one of John's bureau drawers.

"Who's fault is that?" his brother called from the other side of the house.

Ignoring the sarcasm, he trotted to the front door and found a frowning and impatient Sammy.

"Dude, what were you doing? Why didn't you call Pastor Jim again?"

"I told you, he'll call when he finds something. There's no point bugging him for intel he doesn't have. Here, put that in your pocket." Dean shoved one of the items he'd collected into Sam's hand, then opened the door. "Go, move."

"What – Dean, is this salt?" Sam looked at the old tin in disbelief as he hustled out of the house. The small box's dark blue finish was scratched, but the little girl with the umbrella was clearly imprinted on the lid.

"Yeh. Second thought, put it in your bag to get through security. Then put it in your pocket." he instructed as he locked the door.

"Are you insane? I've already got salt packets in my backpack; I'm not carrying this antique around."

Dean turned and gave him his _older brother is always right _glare. "That's an order, Sammy. Until Dad gets home and deals with this thing, you keep it with you. Got that?"

The rebellious look faltered and then disappeared from Sam's face, and he shoved the tin (only slightly grudgingly) into his pack. "What if they think it's drugs?" he asked, opening the Impala's passenger door.

"That's why I dug out the camping equipment," he explained, slipping into the front seat and glancing in the back to make sure that iron rod was still there. The trunk was empty of all but the most innocuous of weapons – a concession to strict school security rules – so knowing it was there made him feel better.

Sam shot him a quizzical look as he started the car and backed out onto the street. "Rock salt in an old salt tin, Sam. If someone asks, say you brought it to show that pretty history teacher."

Curiosity morphed quickly into alarm. "Dean! Don't you dare! She's my teacher; you better not hit on her!"

He leered playfully. "I dunno; I think she's into me."

Sam wacked him on the arm. "Gross."

"Hey, don't criticize. Older women are hot. You know, like the Van Halen song? _Got it made, got it made, got it made, I'm hot for teacher._" He sang the verse cheerfully and loudly, drowning out his brother's protests, then laughed when Sam hit him again.

"Okay, okay, chill. Still, salt in the pocket. And here, wear this." He slipped his other acquisition out of his pocket and extended it to Sam.

"What? Come on, I'm not wearing a necklace."

"It's an amulet, and why not? I've got one."

Sam looked at the dark, heavy amulet as it dangled on a leather cord from Dean's fingers. "That's an Yr. It's not going to help against a ghost, and I'm pretty sure it's against the dress code."

He couldn't help but be impressed that Sammy recognized the rune – not that he showed it. "It's also pure iron, so you're wearing it. If that ghost pops up you can whip it around and throw it through him. Kind of like David versus Goliath."

Sam paused, then smirked. "Did you just make an allusion?"

"A what?"

"An allu– oh, never mind." He snatched the amulet and put it on, though he tucked it under his shirt. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic."

Rolling his eyes, Sam took out a notebook and started reading it in a very obvious manner. Dean didn't mind the brush-off. Sam's mind was off dad for a little while, and he was as protected from the ghost as possible. It wasn't ideal, but it was the best he could do.

They got one of the last spots in the parking lot and ran for the doors, only to have to stand idle in the security line. Dean passed through, wishing in vain for the silver folding knife hidden securely under the driver's seat – or even better, that nice piece of ghost-repelling fence. Instead he had to take comfort in the fact that Sam managed to get through the detectors with his new protections unconfiscated.

"Be safe, 'kay Sammy?" Dean said before he could dart away.

Sam hesitated, then nodded. "Tell me if he calls."

He smiled tightly, then watched his brother turn away. Dean wanted to follow, to make sure it was safe for his brother to even be in this school, but that wasn't possible. Still, he waited until Sam turned a corner before he managed to go his own way. Knowing he was late, he hustled as fast as he could without _technically_ running and slipped into his homeroom with seconds to spare.

Dean started to unzip his backpack, then realized no one else had books out. Brow furrowing, he looked at his unusually solemn teacher and saw the words written neatly on the chalkboard.

_School-wide assembly, 8:40, gym. _

He frowned and checked his watch. It was 8:32. Only minutes later he was back on his feet and part of the mass trek to the gym.

He spotted Sammy sitting in the freshman section, chatting with some Asian kid. The seniors were on the opposite side of the basketball court, so he chose a seat on the metal risers that gave him an unobstructed view of his brother. As the rest of the seniors filed in they separated immediately into cliques; Dean ended up next to some drama geeks. _Could be worse,_ he decided as he watched Greg and other members of the football team claim seats at the top of the riser.

Principal Simmonds walked to the microphone and called for quiet. As the man began to drone Dean looked around, already bored. He spotted Mariah sitting in the midst of some other girls further down the bench behind him. Other than looking a little subdued, she didn't seem to be any worse for wear from yesterday's attack. Dean smiled, relieved, and for just a moment their eyes met. She looked hastily away.

"_... dead and another in the hospital..."_

Dean's attention snapped suddenly to Principal Simmonds.

"_...some of you may be upset or confused, or perhaps you've even contemplated suicide yourself..."_

He nudged the drama geek next to him, a lanky but slouching redhead. "Who's dead?"

The boy gave him a clear _where have you been? _look. "Wayne Crofton. Football player."

An eyebrow arched up. "Oh. How 'bout the other one?"

"Another football player. Randy something."

The other eyebrow joined the first. "Really? Wow."

"_...counselors will be available to any student who..."_

"When did this happen?"

Drama geek glared at him but whispered, "Two or three days ago. Randy tried to kill himself and Wayne managed to drown himself."

Dean whistled softly.

"_...school can be stressful, but there are options..."_

He settled back on the bench, paying attention to Simmonds for a few minutes before realizing that all he was going to hear was blather about suicide being bad and bright futures and talking about your feelings. He had more important things to think about.

An attempted suicide and a suicide. Maybe he wouldn't have given it a second thought – if not for a certain ghostly attempt on his life from a spirit that had it in for a cheerleader. Dean blinked and looked speculatively over at Mariah. Two football players and a cheerleader. John said there was no such thing as coincidence, and he usually believed in his father's wisdom.

He needed to talk to Mariah.

* * *

Dean lingered near the senior lockers, watching for his quarry to appear. Soon enough she rounded the corner, one of a group of seven girls – that was more than he wanted to deal with, so he waited. As he watched they split off to different lockers, some by themselves and others in pairs. He kept his eyes on his target, hoping to catch her alone. 

No such luck. One of the other girls, a cheerleader he remembered from Wednesday, stayed at Mariah's side. _Well, at least it's not queen bitch Brandi_. Realizing this was likely the best chance he was going to get, he slipped through the crowd and leaned on the lockers next to her.

"I need to talk to you."

She started and turned surprised blue eyes on him. Her friend glanced at him, puzzled, then looked at him like she smelled something bad.

"Whatever," Mariah replied, putting a book into her locker

"Yeh, I'm serious." He leaned forward, not accepting her dismissal. "You know why."

"Get lost," the friend advised, shooting him a glare of pure irritation, but as Mariah looked hesitantly back at him he could see fear in her eyes.

"Later?" she asked in a small voice. When he didn't respond she shifted uncomfortably, glanced at the floor, then inhaled. "After school, hall outside the library?"

It made sense – on a Friday afternoon no one, not even Sam, would be there. Dean nodded once and walked away; he could feel too many eyes on him, staring at the reject talking to the cheerleader. But there hadn't been much of a choice.

As he walked toward the chemistry lab he surreptitiously pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and checked it for messages. Nothing. His fingers itched to send a call to his dad, to Pastor Jim – hell, even to Caleb, though the munitions dealer wouldn't know any more than he had when Dean called him last night. No, he knew the drill. He had to wait for Jim's call, no matter how hard it was.

Stuffing the phone back in his pocket, he ducked into the lab. Maybe they'd get to blow something up today – that would take his mind off things. Hell, it'd even be fun.

* * *

"Have you heard from Pastor Jim yet?" Sammy asked as soon as he saw Dean waiting near the main exit.

"Nothing." Seeing worry darken those big brown eyes, Dean hastily added, "if he learned something bad he would have called. He's probably just waiting for us to get out of school so he won't interrupt a test or something. I mean, this is Jim we're talking about."

Sam didn't look convinced. "Call him now, then."

"I will, but we've gotta do something first. Come on." He turned and walked back down the hall.

After they'd gotten about 20 feet in, when it was obvious they were heading even deeper into the school, Dean heard his brother mumble "Christo."

"Sammy?" he asked incredulously.

"Dean, you're making me walk back into school, on _Friday_ afternoon, and you're not checking on dad. Something's obviously wrong with you."

He punched his brother's shoulder, pulling the blow so it wouldn't do more than sting. "I've gotta do something before we go, something important, so you're coming with."

Sam hit him back, harder. "What're we doing?"

"_I'm_ talking to Mariah. _You're _staying out of sight."

"What?" Sam exclaimed. "This is lame. Why do I have to go on your date with you?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "It's not a date. Casper, remember? Under the bleachers? Tried to kill me?"

The scowl on Sam's face melted away and was replaced by uncertainty. "You really think she knows something?"

He shrugged. "Don't know, but I need to find out. Dad's going to need all the info he can get once he's back, and he can't exactly ask her, can he? And you heard them this morning – two football players trying to off themselves? That doesn't jive."

"And since she's a cheerleader you think its connected?" Sam asked solemnly.

"Yeh." He nodded. "Look, I'm meeting her outside the library. Wait around the corner, okay? She's not gonna talk to me with you hanging around. But keep a sharp ear out; I wanna know what you think about what she says."

Sam gave him a goofy smile at being included in the plot and nodded. "Okay."

Dean winked at him, then put a hand on his shoulder as they reached an intersection. He glanced quickly around the corner and saw Mariah waiting in her green and gold uniform. Smiling, he handed his backpack to his brother and gave him a quick nod, then went to meet her.

"Hey," he said quietly as he approached. She turned quickly; he'd seen deers less nervous than Mariah.

"Look, I don't have anything to say to you," she said, words quick and urgent. "You need to leave me alone."

He watched her silently, then shook his head. "We both got attacked, but I think it was after you. Which means you're in danger. I need to know what it was."

She paled a little and shook her head. "I don't know. I really don't. Let's just forget it, okay?"

"I can't do that. Now–"

"Punk-ass bitch, get away from my girl!"

He looked up, startled, as the bellow filled the hall, followed immediately by the appearance of two familiar figures: Greg the quarterback and one of his back-up goons. It was the goon – all six-foot-three inches and 200+ pounds of him – who had yelled.

"You must the wide receiver," Dean guessed, taking a few steps away from Mariah as the guy bore down on him.

"Joel, stop, it's nothing, really," she stammered, shrinking further out of the way. Joel didn't even look at her, though Greg glanced her way as he followed his teammate.

Dean squared his shoulders and his stance, angry that they'd been interrupted and uncertain if there was anything he could do to avoid the fight that was coming. John would be furious at him for fighting inside the school, but all that mattered right now was that there were only two of them. Two he could take. Letting these two jokers beat him down was unacceptable, especially not when he was Sammy's only protector until their dad got back.

"You should listen to your girlfriend," he said steadily. "Anyway, don't y'all have a game tonight? Don't want you to have to sit it out."

Joel reached out to shove him; Dean sidestepped it neatly, praying that his little brother would stay out of this. "She's just helping me with that stupid _Crime and Punishment_ assignment. No need for you to go all Hulk Smash."

Another punch, another dodge. He smiled sharply, adrenalin honing his instincts. "Not very good at this, are you?" When the next punch came, he caught Joel's arm and twisted it behind his tall foe, earning a satisfying grunt.

"Greg, don't!" Mariah pleaded. It was enough warning for Dean to spin and shove Joel toward the quarterback, making them both stagger with the impact.

"You know, you owe me an apology, Greg" he taunted, knowing that the angrier they were the more inept they'd be. One of the first things John had taught him about fighting (humans, anyway) was the value of goading a foe into recklessness. "You insulted my car. I mean, that's just unforgivable."

"It's a piece of crap," the quarterback growled, executing a tackle that would have been great on the field – if Dean hadn't anticipated it and once again danced away. This time, though, he threw a hard punch to Greg's side and stuck a foot in front of those still-moving feet.

The quarterback went down hard, but Dean didn't have time to savor the sight. Greg wouldn't be down long, and Joel was charging him again. And he heard someone running down the hall toward them.

"Dammit, Sam, stay back!" he yelled as he barely dodged Joel's next punch.

"Dean!"

Something in his brother's voice made him look back. He was just in time to see a third jock – another of the goons from the parking lot – grab his running brother by the shoulder and yank him back, clean off his feet. Sammy hit the floor, crying out as his skull cracked against the tiles.

"Sam!"

All of John's lessons – don't fight angry, don't get distracted, don't get scared – flew out the window. Dean whirled and rushed to his brother, seeing only Sam and the guy who'd just taken him out. He saw eyes widening in shock and then saw the guy fall after just one clean hit to the jaw. Dean didn't care; he hit him again on the way down.

"Sammy, you ok?" he asked urgently as his little brother blinked up at him. "Get up and get out!"

A sudden widening of those disoriented eyes was all the warning he had before he was grabbed and hauled backward. His arms were pinned behind him – it had to be by Joel, since Greg surged up to punch him in the stomach. All the air left him in a rush as pain burned through him; the last thing that hit him that hard was a poltergeist, and this time his dad wasn't here to back him up.

"_Stop!"_

He didn't recognize the voice and didn't have time to care. Using Joel's hold on his arms, Dean swept both feet up off the floor and kicked the quarterback in the chest. Greg hit the floor ass-first and Joel went staggering backward. Dean felt them going down – the problem was, Joel twisted mid-fall and crushed him into the floor. If it didn't hurt so badly he'd be impressed.

"_Stop right now!"_

He could hardly breathe as pain lanced through bruised ribs, and the edges of his vision went white as punches ground into his stomach once, twice, three times. Dean struggled, shoving at his attacker, but he had no leverage, no room to throw a punch, and dammit he couldn't breathe...

And then the weight crushing him down disappeared. Dean sucked in a deep breath, ignoring the pain and nausea, and began to shove himself up even as that whiteness obscured more of his vision. Hands shoved him back down to the floor and he raised a fist, cursing.

"Dean, stop, it's all right!" Sammy's voice penetrated the haze, checking him before he hit. "It's a teacher, don't, it's all right!"

He blinked, trying to focus, and the sight of his very burly chemistry teacher swam into view.

"Ah, crap," he muttered and dropped his hand. "Mr. Lee... okay, okay."

"Stay down," was the stern command.

"Yeh," he gasped, closing his eyes and resting against the nice, cool floor. He felt Sam take his hand. "You okay Sammy? You hit your head."

"I'm good. Stop talking."

That was all the reassurance Dean needed; he relaxed as best he could, tried not to throw up, and squeezed his brother's hand.

**(end chapter four)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Title: **Haze

**Author: **C Cawthorne

**Author's note: **And another late chapter! I hope my beloved readers are mollified by the fact that there are two? I'm still trying for a chapter every 7-9 days, but with DragonCon coming up that might not be possible (much sewing of costumes still to do).

As always, I don't own Dean (he owns me) or Sam or the Impala or anything else from _Supernatural._ The original characters are mine. While I am using a real town, everything else is pure imagination. Feedback is encouraged, nay, begged for!

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_**Chapter 5**_

Principal Simmonds' waiting room looked like every principal's waiting room Dean had ever seen – and he'd seen a lot of them. Not just because he got into trouble – though he did his fare share of that – but because he and Sam averaged two schools a year. New schools meant new registration forms, new lies to tell, and new offices full of cheap furniture, framed certificates, and drab colors.

He sat straight in one of the hard plastic-and-metal chairs – straighter than he'd prefer considering how sore his mid-section was. He'd rather be stretched horizontally with the school nurse's offered-but-refused ice pack on his bruised stomach

"What do you think they're talking about?" Sammy asked from the chair next to him, his gaze flicking nervously between Dean, the school security guard scowling down at them, and the closed office door. Behind it Simmonds, Ms. Martin, Mr. Lee, and the three football players huddled, their voices no more than frustrating murmurs.

"Dunno," he answered, refusing to betray the fact that he was feeling as nervous as his younger brother. "Doubt it's good."

Sam shook his head tightly. "It's not fair. They started it."

"More than that," Dean said darkly. "I know an ambush when I see it. That was a freakin' set-up. I didn't think she'd do it."

The younger Winchester nodded, but bit his lip softly. "I don't think it was Mariah's fault though. She looked really surprised. And scared."

Dean arched an eyebrow. "You think?" Blaming Mariah was easy – in fact, it was the first thing he thought after Mr. Lee had pulled him to his feet and he realized she wasn't anywhere to be seen. But Sammy would have seen more than he did; he'd been too busy with Greg and Joel.

"It had to be someone, though," he mused. Then it came to him. "The girl at Mariah's locker. She knew where we'd be, and when. Crap."

"At least I had your back." Sam smiled a little.

"Yell or something next time, loser. Don't go all hero on me; you could've gotten a concussion."

The smile grew. "Yeh, you're welcome."

Dean rolled his eyes but his retort was cut off when the office door opened. Greg, Joel and the one who had hurt Sammy – he'd overheard Mr. Lee call him Tom – filed out, all three of them glaring as they sat down in chairs across the room.

"Sam, Dean, come in please." Ms. Martin stood in Simmonds' doorway, her expression aggressively neutral.

"Yes ma'am," they answered simultaneously; together they stood and entered the office.

It was, again, like every principal's office he'd ever seen: an industrial desk with a nameplate, putty-colored metal file cabinets, and educational certificates on the wall. Mr. Simmonds himself fell easily into one of the classifications Dean had invented over years of meeting principals – the politician Politicians were identifiable by their relatively young looks, perfect hair (probably dyed), and phoniness that never failed to set his teeth on edge.

But very little fake friendliness was on display right now. "Sit down boys," the man ordered curtly.

He glanced at Sam, then nodded and claimed a folding chair directly across from the principal. As his brother sat, Dean opened his mouth to speak. Simmonds beat him to it.

"I don't like what I'm hearing – harassing a female student, starting a fight with other students, and dragging your younger brother into it as well. Add to that missing days of school and lackluster performance in several of your classes; it makes me question your priorities."

Dean's eyes widened, but he managed to bite back his annoyance. "Sir, whatever they told you is false. Mariah and I were talking; I wasn't harassing her. They started the fight. I was just defending myself, and when my brother tried to warn me another was coming at me. They attacked him."

Simmonds listened with expressionless blue eyes, but his mouth curved into a stern frown. "Greg, Tom, and Joel have impeccable records. You two, on the other hand, have been in more schools than I care to count. Neither of you has much credibility."

Sam's face reddened even as Dean paled in anger.

"I didn't–" Sam started.

"He didn't–" Dean said simultaneously.

"Excuse me." Ms. Martin's words sliced through like tempered steel. Everyone's heads turned her way. "As I said, I saw that part of the fight. Sam did not participate other than to warn his brother of Tom's approach. Tom is the one who attacked a younger student half his size."

Dean didn't betray his surprise, though he couldn't remember seeing her when Sammy went down. Simmonds didn't bother hiding his frown, but Ms. Martin's resolute stare did not change. After a moment he turned his attention to the younger Winchester.

"Is that true?"

"I was just waiting for Dean to finish talking when they jumped him," Sam explained, his voice uncertain and upset. "I tried to warn him and that guy Tom chased me and pulled me down. I didn't do anything to anyone, and it _hurt._"

By the time he was finished, Sam's scared voice had transformed into full-blown fear and his brown eyes widened pitiably. Dean knew they'd be laughing about his performance later.

Simmonds' expression was unreadable, but before he could respond Mr. Lee spoke up. "I didn't see the start of the fight, but Dean's one of my sharpest students. I doubt he'd put his brother in danger, and frankly I don't think he's stupid enough to pick a fight with three bigger guys."

"But neither of you actually saw who started the fight?" Simmonds asked coolly. Both teachers shook their heads. "Then you're only guessing. Based on–"

A loud knock on the already opening door interrupted him. A greying but athletic man in a green and gold windbreaker entered, 'Coach Daniels' embroidered on his jacket's front and emblazoned across its back. Dean dared a glance at Sam, who could only shrug.

"Mr. Simmonds, we have a game to prepare for. Are you really planning on holding our best players here because of a little dustup?"

The principal looked surprised at the intrusion. "You know the rules governing student altercations, Coach Daniels."

"There's not a mark on any of those boys they wouldn't have gotten on the field," Daniels growled. He glanced over at the brothers. "Not on them either. We've got one of our biggest home games of the season in an hour. I need my boys on the field. Or do you want us to lose to Newton?"

Simmonds looked like he'd just swallowed vinegar. Dean had to give the coach credit – the man knew exactly what tactics to use and pressed his attack as soon as he saw a hint of vulnerability. "Now you know those boys have had a hard week. The whole team has. I'll make sure they understand what they've done is wrong, make sure they get disciplined. But I need them."

"Fine, take them," Simmonds said curtly. "But you are not going to let them off the hook, understood?"

"I'll make sure of it," Daniels promised. Turning, he walked out and shut the door behind him.

"I guess it's pretty clear how they got such perfect records," Dean said insolently into the sudden silence. Simmonds' gaze latched onto his, but this time he met it with a hint of challenge. He had a bargaining chip now, and he was going to use it. "I know the rules – both sides in a fight get equal punishment, no matter who started it. You just let them walk."

He could all but feel the man's irritation radiating out in waves. "Daniels will punish them. That doesn't put you in the clear. They're suffering emotional distress; you are not."

"Sir, Coach Daniels will give them a lecture and some extra laps," Mr. Lee interjected, his voice as low and lazy as ever. "Give Dean detention hours with me; it'll be more punishment than they'll get. And at least he'll get something useful out of it."

"That sounds reasonable," Ms. Martin added quickly.

Dean stared at his teachers in surprise, but it was Sam's stomp on his foot that kept him from protesting the unfairness of being punished at all.

There was a long stretch of silence; then Simmonds nodded stiffly. "Very well, it's settled. I'll need the details once you determine them, Mr. Lee. Escort these gentlemen off school property. I don't want to see them at tonight's game."

Furious, Dean didn't move until Sam elbowed his arm gently. "C'mon Dean, let's go."

Shoving his mutinous instincts deep inside, he rose to his feet, clenching his teeth against his stomach's painful protest. The look he shot Principal Simmonds wouldn't do him any favors and he knew it, but he couldn't help it. Detention took him away from important things like training, weapon maintenance, and hunting – not to mention that his dad would be pissed. It also forced Sam into detention by proxy, since he couldn't leave school until Dean did. But Simmonds was looking for a fight, for just one excuse to throw the book at him, so he swallowed his anger and pride and turned away.

"Why didn't you show him you were hurt?" Mr. Lee asked once they were out in the hallway. "He wouldn't have been able to dismiss the others so easily."

Dean just shrugged. He hadn't let the nurse examine him for the simple reason that she'd see his scars and call child services.

The chemistry teacher watched him for a moment with deceptively lazy brown eyes, then frowned when he realized silence was the only answer he would get. "See me after school Tuesday. We'll work out the details."

"Yes sir," he replied, trying not to sound too sullen. When Sam nudged him once more he added, "thanks. For the help."

The man just nodded, then looked at Ms. Martin. "You've got this?" At her nod he walked away, waving over his shoulder.

"Let's go," she said, her words clipped as she led them out. Both recognized the palpable aura of restrained anger surrounding her, and neither wanted to see it loosed – so they followed her, silent and moody, through the empty school.

They got all the way to the parking lot; Dean managed to keep a normal pace even though his body was protesting. It wasn't the worst he'd suffered, not by a longshot, but he knew tomorrow he'd be black and blue from his ribs to his hipbones. He fished the keys out of his backpack, ignoring the pain until he could get some privacy.

"Thanks for sticking up for us," he managed in what he thought was a suitably grateful manner.

Apparently it was the wrong thing to say. She wheeled to face him, dark eyes ablaze. "What were you _thinking,_ Dean? Getting your brother hurt over a girl like Mariah Stover?"

Sam started to protest, but he barely got a _'wait'_ in as Dean's patience finally snapped. "There wasn't supposed to be a fight. They weren't supposed to be there! How many times do I have to say it?"

"You're messing with another guy's girlfriend, just like you did Wednesday. How did you expect them to react?"

"Not by attacking Sammy. I didn't even know what's-her-name was Greg's girl until he got so angry!" Frustrated (and feeling just a little guilty), Dean threw up his hands and began to turn away. He couldn't get into a yelling match with this teacher. She was already too interested in their family.

"It's not Dean's fault," Sam said firmly, stepping in between them. "He wasn't trying to pick her up; there was something he needed to ask her. Dean's not the one who got me hurt. Tom did that."

Ms. Martin's lips straightened into a line. "It was irresponsible."

"But it's not his fault," Sam repeated.

Dean felt ridiculous, letting his younger brother fight this battle for him, even though it was the right strategy. Ms. Martin obviously cared for and trusted Sammy but didn't know him from Ted Nugent. He was also about to lose it, teacher or not, woman or not – better to let Sam handle her.

Thankfully it seemed like Sam had gotten through; Dean saw her shoulders lower just a fraction before she looked at him again. "Look, I don't think it was right for them to get off. But Simmonds is right about one thing – even if Randy recovers like we hope, they've still lost three teammates in a year. I'm not saying it's fair, or that it excuses what they did, but you need to walk softly around them."

Sam glanced back at him; Dean could tell they were both thinking the same thing. "Three?"

She blinked. It obviously wasn't the response she'd been expecting. "Jason Johnson. He disappeared around this time last year."

"Oh," Dean said, his brain already contemplating the possibilities.

"Look, Dean, just stay away from them, okay?" she asked, her tired tone reminiscent of their father's when he got frustrated.

"I'll tr– I'll do that," he replied, lowering his eyes in a show – but only a show – of compliance.

"Fine, get going then. And tell your father that I need to talk to him soon." Ms. Martin watched as they got into the car and remained outside, one hand resting on her hip, until they pulled away.

**(end chapter 5)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Title: **Haze

**Author: **C Cawthorne

**Author's note:** As always, I don't own Dean (he owns me) or anyone/anything else from _Supernatural._ The original characters are mine. While I am using a real town, everything else is pure imagination. Feedback is supplicated, implored, and petitioned for.

On a completely unrelated note, I find it hilarious that WordPerfect's grammar check is offended by my use of low-grade cursing.

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_**Chapter 6**_

Dean flipped the radio on out of habit but turned down the volume so the Skynard song playing was barely audible. Anger still seethed through him, but he held his peace. Right now he had more important things to think about.

"Whatcha think, Sammy? Maybe this Jason guy's another vic?" he asked as he pulled out his cell phone and checked the display for messages. There was one, left by Pastor Jim. Swearing too loudly to hear his brother's tentative response, he thumbed in the password even as he pulled roughly into a nearby parking lot.

"Is that Jim?" Sam asked, transforming from upset to anxious in a heartbeat.

He nodded, jacked up the phone's volume, and leaned over so they both could listen.

"_Dean, this is Jim. Your dad's fine, so you and Sam don't need to worry. He managed to get himself arrested; we're going to have to sort it out. But I'm not worried. Give me a call when you get this and I'll fill you in."_

Matching sighs of relief escaped them. Dean immediately dialed the clergyman's number, ignoring the tickle of Sam's long hair against his ear.

"Dean, are you boys okay?" the familiar voice answered after the second ring.

"Yeh, we're fine," he answered impatiently. "What happened? How much trouble is he in?"

"He's okay," Jim said soothingly. "He's in a little hot water, but I should be able to get him out. He doesn't want you two involved, though, so are you going to be good on your own for a few days?"

Dean paused to glance at Sam, then answered with a firm "Yes."

"Good." They could almost hear the smile on Jim's careworn face.

"What happened?" Sam asked.

"Is that Sam? Hey kiddo. John found the angiak and put it to rest, but someone saw him go into the woods where it resided. They called in to report a trespasser, if you can believe it. The police checked out the call, found him, then one of them found the remains."

Dean groaned. "Looking exactly like a murdered child."

"Exactly." Jim's voice was serious but not grim. "The only thing they have on him is proximity. I'll find out who the parents were. Once the police realize they have a local child whose birth was never even reported they'll focus on the parents, which is only just."

"What if the parents say dad snatched the kid?" Dean asked. He figured anyone who could abandon a newborn to the wilds could just as easily abandon an innocent man to the cops.

"Son, I'm a priest," Jim replied, and there was no question now that he was smiling. "Confessions are my specialty."

Sam managed a wan smile and Dean laughed ruefully; they'd experienced Jim's guilt-trips firsthand.

"John gave them a fake I.D. when they arrested him, so he can't call you. He asked me to pass on that he knows you'll do fine, he expects you not to get into trouble, and not to worry about him."

Dean glanced at Sam, who looked about to burst with questions – or worse, a certain ghost story. He shook his head gently. "Okay. You'll keep us updated, right? Tell us when you find the bast– um, people who did it."

"Of course, and mind your language," Jim replied mildly. "Now is there anything else I can do for you?"

"No sir," he answered, wishing he had a dollar for every time he'd gotten that particular admonishment from the preacher.

"Just help dad," Sam chimed in.

"Will do."

The line disconnected. Dean switched the phone back to ring and stuffed it into his pocket.

"Maybe we should have told him about the ghost?" Sam ventured.

He shook his head. "All he'll do is worry. He'll probably tell Jim to come help us instead of getting him out of jail, and that's just a really bad idea. The longer he's in there, the more they're going to think he's the only possible suspect. And soon enough they'll figure out who he really is."

Dean didn't need to say what would happen then. Child services, separation, foster homes or worse – threats they were always conscious of, right up there with ghosts and demons. "We're just gonna have to stay away from the school as much as we can; keep our heads down until he gets home."

"What happens if someone else gets hurt, though?" his brother asked softly. "If dad isn't back for days, someone could die. It could go after Mariah again."

Dean didn't answer for a moment, and when he did his voice was gruff. "You know the rules, Sammy. No hunting without dad." Putting the Impala into gear, he pulled back out onto the road.

"We could go to the library," Sam suggested after they'd gone through two lights. "We could find out who Jason is. See if there's something behind what happened to Randy and Wayne. It wouldn't really be hunting, just research."

Dean glanced at him, worry warring with pride for dominance. "I was thinking the same thing yesterday. But you got hurt just on research detail; I think it's better to wait it out, even if..." He let the words trail off – it was better than actually saying them.

_Even if more people die._

"Dean, didn't you hear what I told Ms. Martin? It wasn't your fault. I wasn't lying."

"Doesn't change the fact that it was on my watch," he said, keeping green eyes glued to the road before him. He could still hear that awful crack when Sam's head hit the floor. He knew now it sounded a lot worse than it really was, but that didn't change the fact that he never wanted to hear anything like it ever again. Nor could he forget the sickening feeling of helplessness when the ghost was dragging him into the dark. No, he wasn't getting Sammy involved in this.

"Earth to Dean." Sam poked his arm, pulling him out of the spiral of his thoughts.

"Ow, what?"

"I said you don't have to worry about me getting into any more fights. It's easy."

"Oh yeah? How's that?" he asked, arching an eyebrow.

"We'll go to the library before I go over to Akio's for our history project. I guarantee you that not one member of the football team will be there on a Saturday morning." Sam grinned. "I mean, think about it."

Dean paused, then smiled and shoved his younger brother playfully. "You're smarter than you look, you know that?"

"And twice as smart as you," he shot back, grinning.

"Don't press your luck, geek-boy."

"Three times smarter," he laughed, ducking Dean's blow.

He pulled the car into their driveway and pretended to listen to the end of the Stones' _Paint it Black _so he could take his time getting out. Maybe Sam bought the act and maybe he didn't; Dean was just happy to get out and inside the house without groaning.

"I think we get to take a break from training tonight," he declared, stretching out on the couch with a sigh.

There was no response from Sam, who'd already disappeared into the kitchen. After a few moments he started to get worried – then two gel-paks straight from the freezer landed on his stomach. Grinning at Dean's surprised yelp, Sam handed him a Mountain Dew and a bag of Cheetos. Then he plopped down on the floor, leaned against the couch, and flipped on the TV.

Dean grinned and adjusted the gel-paks gratefully across his bruised stomach. "Sometimes you're not too bad, Sammy," he said, ruffling his brother's hair playfully as they settled in for a night of _The Visitor_ and _Millennium._ If either of them thought about the football game that was about to start or the ghost haunting the field, neither brother breathed a word of it.

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_**Interlude**_

"I can't believe you did that, Amy!" Mariah whispered fiercely as she pulled her hair back.

Amy glanced at her reflection in the locker-room mirror where they both stood, then applied another layer of color to her already pink lips. "_I_ can't believe you like him. I mean, slumming, much? He's hot, but you _know_ he's Section Eight — assuming he doesn't live in the trailer park."

"I was just going to talk to him. You didn't have to tell Joel." She twisted a green band fiercely around her ponytail.

"Whatever." Amy rolled her eyes and applied more blush.

"He could've gotten suspended, and now he won't even speak to me!" Mariah hissed, whirling to face the other cheerleader.

Amy shrugged, unconcerned. "You're the one who's always trashing Joel. Go find your bad boy's trailer and let Joel have someone who appreciates him."

"You are such a bitch!" Mariah turned and walked away, pausing at the door. "Like he'd ever care about you. You're just the slut who's gone through half the team."

She threw the door open and switched the lights off on the way out. The hum of the fluorescents died, leaving Amy in total darkness.

"Damn it, Mariah!" she yelled, but the other girl was gone. Cursing, she reached out to touch the mirror she knew was to her left, and started walking forward slowly. Trailing her hand along the mirror and then the wall kept her walking in the right direction, but she rammed her shin into a low bench before she took six steps. "Ow! Damn!"

As Amy reached down to rub bruised skin, she heard it — a dry whisper of a laugh.

"Who's there?" she demanded, but received no answer. "I heard you, creep! Where are you?"

_Run_

Every inch of her skin prickled as the word slid through her brain.

_Run_

"Go away, you freak!" She stumbled toward the door blindly and yanked at the handle. It didn't budge. "Let me out! Help!"

The rumble of the Friday night football audience was barely audible through the opaque glass of the immovable door. Behind her was absolute silence. Amy shook at the door, then pounded on the glass; there had to be someone out there, someone to hear.

_Run_

Something freezing touched her back. Amy whirled, then screamed. A white/blue form shimmered in front of her, ripped and darkly stained clothes marred by transparent bones piercing transparent flesh.

_Run_

Lurching to the side, she obeyed. There was another door, one that led to the pool and escape. She ran as fast as she could, this time not caring about bashed shins and lockers that seemed to block her way.

_Run coward fairy run_

She could feel it right behind her as she slammed into a wall, and then tumbled through a swinging door into the unlit pool area. Amy ached all over but still she ran — and felt nothing under her feet. Her scream was cut short by a sharp crack as she hit the cement bottom of the waterless pool.

Wide eyes stared emptily up at a darkened ceiling, reflecting a flickering white/blue. Blood glinted black, then dulled as the solid shell that was meant to cover the empty pool slid silently back into place.

The faint sound of the game announcer and the cheers that accompanied each name echoed faintly in from the field outside. No one was there to hear.

**(end Chapter 6)**


	7. Chapter 7

**Title: **Haze

**Author: **C Cawthorne

**Author's note: **I'm so sorry for the long delay. I underestimated how much prep time I needed for DragonCon... and then how much recovery time. And while I've been writing since I got back, I've had no time to transfer the new material from my notebook to my computer. On the plus side, I've already gotten halfway into chapter eight! So hopefully I can have that one up soon as well.

As always, I don't own Dean (he owns me) or anyone/anything else from _Supernatural._ The original characters are mine. While I am using a real town, everything else is pure imagination. Feedback keeps me writing!

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_**Chapter 7**_

**One Year Later, Jason Still Missing**

Dean had a theory, one that he was becoming more confident of by the minute. It was all there, spread out in front of him on the Impala's seat – anyone who knew how to read between the lines could see it in the headlines, suspiciously coinciding dates, and certain names that popped up in photocopies of the Marshalltown _Times Republican_.

"Love it when the research is easy," he muttered as he took a swig of the Coke Akio's mom had pressed into his hands when she realized he was going to sit in the car until Sam was finished with the school project. She'd been uncertain, maybe even a little offended, when he'd turned down her offer of waiting in the living room. He'd had to turn on the Winchester charm to persuade her that he really preferred staying outside.

_Not like I could spread these out in there,_ he thought as he scanned the headlines again.

**Police Search for Missing Student**

**Parents Plead for Jason's Safe Return**

**Police Ask Students for Leads in Johnson Case**

**Did Jason Run Away?**

The story was simple enough. Jason Johnson's parents went to Des Moines for a few days to sign the papers selling their old home. When they returned, he was gone. No signs of foul play meant that, within a week, the police proclaimed the highschool senior a runaway and closed the case.

Dean, however, was more persuaded by the parents' protestations that Jason – they called him JJ, just like Ms. Martin – wouldn't have run away. Apparently none of his friends in Des Moines had heard from him after he disappeared, and he hadn't had any trouble fitting in at Marshalltown High. He'd even won a coveted spot on the football team, as a starter no less, and he had no history of drugs or psychological problems.

It was the football detail that caught his and Sammy's attention when they'd been quickly scanning the papers at the library. It seemed obvious that JJ was the first victim. The **One Year Later** story spawned the theory – it had been printed on Tuesday. Randy had supposedly tried to kill himself Tuesday night. This time around there were more victims, but that wasn't so strange. Most of the creatures they dealt with were creatures of habit, but that didn't mean they didn't escalate. Sometimes escalation was the only thing that tipped John off to their existence at all.

So whatever got JJ was going after other football players and the cheerleaders (who might as well be officially part of the team). Dean knew it was a ghost; what he couldn't figure out was why it had a thing for jocks and cheerleaders, or why it killed this time of year, other than it being football season. Of course, it didn't really matter why, really, as long as they could figure out where it was so they could kill it.

Still, the facts and guesses weren't quite adding up. He couldn't say why he had the feeling that he was missing something; it was just there, right on the edge of his consciousness and about as annoying as an unreachable itch. Wishing Sam – or even better, their dad – was here to give him feedback, he started scanning the articles on the missing student again. Greg and his girlfriend Brandi had been interviewed in one, Randy and Wayne in another, Joel in a third. He didn't see Mariah or Tom.

"But where you find one . . . " he muttered, shuffling the pages into a stack. Maybe Jason's family could give him some clue about what he was missing. "Okay Dean, think. How are you going to convince the parents to talk to you?"

Leaning back, he finished off the last bite of his fast-food hamburger and cranked the radio up as Rush came on.

_ Growing up it all seems so one-sided_

_ Opinions all provided_

_ The future pre-decided._

He wasn't old enough to pull off using one of John's fake police badges. That ruse would be pretty cruel anyway.

_ Detached and subdivided_

_ In the mass production zone_

_ Nowhere is the dreamer or misfit so alone._

"Working on a story for the school newspaper?" he pondered, looking out at the green lawns and large driveways of the houses around him. "Could work."

_ (Subdivisions) In the highschool halls_

_ In the shopping malls_

_ Conform or be cast out._

A silver BMW cruised past the Impala, which stuck out like a sore thumb on a block where luxury European cars were the rule, and where none of those cars were more than five years old.

_ (Subdivisions) In the basement bars_

_ In the back of cars_

_ Conform or be cast out._

The BMW rolled to a silent stop in front of a big stone house two doors down. Dean barely paid attention as someone got out of the back seat, but right as he reached for his soda something clicked. Green eyes zeroed in on the girl letting herself into the house as the German sedan drove away. He'd know that backside anywhere.

"I can't believe it," he exclaimed as Mariah disappeared into the house. He looked down at his watch. It was after three; Sam was probably going to be finished with his silly project soon.

But it was too good a chance to pass up; in a matter of moments he was out and knocking on Akio's door. When the boy's mother answered she looked somewhat confused, but Dean smiled brightly. "Sorry to bother you again, ma'am, but I need to talk to Sam for a moment. Then I'll be out of your hair."

"Of course, come in. Though you really wouldn't be bothering anyone if you stayed inside. You could watch TV if you want," she offered, gesturing toward the den where a very nice looking 36-inch TV beckoned.

"No thanks, ma'am, though it's nice of you to offer," he replied, and was rewarded by a charmed smile.

"Your parents must be proud of how polite they've raised you and your brother," she said, oblivious to how his smile tightened just a little at the compliment. "Go on then. They're where you left them."

Dean walked into the kitchen, which opened out onto a dining area; he figured that together, the two rooms were about half the size of the house they were renting. Sam, Akio, and a few other freshmen were gathered around the table, chattering away about the American Revolution.

"Yo Sammy, c'mere for a moment," he called as he walked across the tiled floor.

His brother looked up, a bit startled, then hopped up and came over.

"What's going on?" he asked quickly, dark eyes alert. "Have you heard from Jim?"

He shook his head. "Nothing new. Look, I just spotted Mariah. Two doors up to the left, if you're facing the car. I'm gonna see if she'll talk to me. You think you could stay here after the project if I'm not back?"

"Yeh, I guess so, but–"

"I promise I'll fill you in," Dean grinned. "Get back to work."

Minutes later he stood in front of a very large brick house, knocking on a red-painted door. He reviewed what he'd say to a wary parent as he smoothed his hair down, then smiled as the door opened to reveal . . . nothing?

"Oh, hey," he said when he finally realized it was a short kid who'd opened the door – a girl probably a few years younger than Sammy. "Is Mariah here?"

The girl rolled her eyes, turned away, and yelled the cheerleader's name at a volume that impressed him.

"What?" an irritated voice shouted back. The girl shrugged, turned and abandoned him where he stood.

Dean floundered for a moment, not sure exactly what to do, but then decided to head upstairs. It sounded like Mariah was up there, and obviously little sis here didn't care if he was there to deliver pizza or make out with her older sister. Since no one else showed up, Dean climbed the carpeted stairs; the only sound that came from downstairs was the very recognizable Mario Brothers theme. No parents home, then. Sometimes he wondered at how stupid people were.

He wandered down halls until he found a door decorated with pompoms, ribbons, and pictures of the cheerleading squad. He didn't even bother waiting for a response to his knock on the half-open door before pushing it open.

"Go away, Sarah!" the cheerleader yelled from where she was curled on her bed, her back to the door and her arms around an oversized pillow.

"Can I come in?" he asked, causing her to sit up with a cry of surprise. Dean couldn't help frowning when he saw she was crying. "Are you okay?"

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, running the back of her hand over her wet cheeks. "Go away."

He took a step forward instead. "Did he hurt you?" It didn't take to much imagination to think Joel was capable of hitting a girl.

"What? No, are you insane? He wouldn't do that!" She stood and walked up to him. "Leave."

"Not until you tell me what happened," he said simply.

"Nothing happened!"

"Yes it did. You were crying, your eyes are red, and – oh yeah – we were attacked by a _ghost_ two days ago! Now what's going on?" He paused as a thought came to him. "It didn't attack you again, did it?"

Mariah tried to give him another look telling him just how insane he was, but this one wasn't nearly as successful as the first. "No, look, just go. Nothing happened." As she spoke, she wrapped her arms around her stomach ad turned her face away.

Someone else might have felt sympathetic; Dean just felt frustrated. He leaned against the doorframe and hooked his thumbs in his pockets. "It did happen. You got attacked; Randy got attacked; Wayne got attacked. You're just lucky you got off as easy as you did, and unless you tell me what's going on it'll happen again. Maybe to you, maybe to someone else, but it'll happen. And whoever it is will probably die."

Blue eyes widened; Mariah gasped and turned away, trembling as she sat gracelessly. This time Dean did move, crossing the room to sit beside her. "Who?" he asked simply.

"Amy," she answered, her voice so soft he had to strain to hear her. "We had a fight; I left her in the dark. She's gone."

Dean could only stare at her in amazement as she began to cry again. _What the hell were you thinking?_ was the obvious question, but it was also useless. "Where was she when she disappeared?" he asked instead.

"The locker room. It's like she just left, but she wouldn't have missed the game." Mariah pulled at a lock of her hair. "I _turned off_ the _lights._"

He reached out and put a hand carefully around hers, trapping her fingers so she'd stop. "If it helps, the lights didn't matter. It's just sunlight that scares off most ghosts."

"How do you know that?" she asked uncertainly, still refusing to look at him.

"I just do," he answered, then continued before she realized she'd just accepted the existence of ghosts. "Look, Mariah, I need you to tell me about Jason Johnson. What happened to him?"

She wrenched her hand out of his so fast his skin burned. "This doesn't have anything to with JJ!"

"Yeh, right." He caught her hand again and leaned forward. "I _knew _he was more than a vic. Something happened to him; something bad, and you know what it was. You were there, weren't you? You and Amy, Wayne, and Randy."

She tried to pull away again, but this time he didn't let her. After a moment she met his eyes, staring at him like a scared bird, and shook her head mutely.

"You have to tell me, Mariah, so I can do something about it. Otherwise it's going to come back for you, and next time I won't be there to save you."

"You can't do anything; he's dead," she moaned suddenly, tears rolling down her cheeks. "It was an accident, it was . . . it wasn't supposed to happen!"

Wide-eyed, Dean watched her as she dissolved into tears. A chivalrous instinct told him to comfort her, but all he could do was stare. The instinct that had been itching at him in the car settled in morbid satisfaction – Jason hadn't been killed by the ghost. He'd been killed by his friends. Jason _was_ the ghost. And Mariah and the others had stayed quiet this whole time, while JJ was out there somewhere decaying.

Any attraction she held for him shattered like a broken window.

"Mariah." He spoke her name slowly and firmly to win her attention. "You need to tell me what happened. And you need to tell me where he is."

She shook her head a few more times, but after a long moment of looking into his eyes she began to speak.

**(End chapter 7)**


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: **Here it is, Chapter 8! Things are really starting to roll. I've got everything mapped out and planned; all I need is to get it out of outline form :) I hope everyone enjoys this as it begins to come to a close! As always, I don't own Dean, or Sam, or the Impala or anything else Supernatural. I just own the original characters and the plot!

Feedback please! Even though y'all will be way busy watching the premiere!

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**__**Chapter 8**_

"Pastor Jim? It's Dean. I was just, um, do you think our dad will be out soon? 'Cause there's something we could use his help on. So… thanks."

He finished leaving the message just as his little brother exited Akio's house with a wave over his shoulder and some words Dean couldn't hear. He shoved the phone in his pocket as Sam slid into the passenger seat and dumped his backpack on the floorboards.

"So what did you find out? Did she explain about yesterday?" Sam asked as he buckled in.

Dean shook his head, his expression grim. He'd been on a lot of hunts, and a few of them had normal people involved in some way, but this . . . this one left him feeling ill. And that feeling must have shown on his face, because Sam sobered quickly. "What happened?"

"Jason Johnson's dead," he answered as he started the car, taking some comfort in the engine's familiar rumble.

His brother's already big eyes widened further, but he simply nodded and waited for more as Dean pulled out onto the street.

"It's some kind of tradition; new guys on the team get taken out to farm country to party. They've gotta prove themselves or something." The road took them by the golf course before he found the turn to take them toward town. "Mariah was there; she and some of the other cheerleaders went with the guys. But she couldn't tell me exactly what happened — there was a fight because he wouldn't take a stupid dare, and he got killed. They left him out there."

Sam's mouth gaped. "They _killed _him? On purpose?"

He shrugged uncomfortably. "I dunno; she said it was an accident, but she didn't see that part. It wasn't just Randy and Wayne, though. Joel, Greg and Tom were there, and two other cheerleaders."

"So JJ's come back for revenge," Sammy breathed. "It's going to try to get her again. The others too. We have to stop it."

Dean squeezed the steering wheel tight and shook his head. "We can't hunt without dad, Sam. You know that."

"She'll _die,_ Dean," he proclaimed, leaning in to stare at his brother.

Those green eyes never strayed from the road, but the older Winchester did blink. Sam was right, and he knew it. He'd told Mariah how to keep safe, about salt and iron and his hunch about being around as many people as possible. But those rules wouldn't keep her safe for long; she would disappear, just like Amy. And he couldn't do a thing about it. "We have to wait."

"Dad will understand."

"No, he won't, Sam."

"They're going to die!"

"And I'm not putting you in the line of fire!" Dean hit the brakes sharply at a stop sign, sending them both lurching forward in their seats. "Drop it, Sam, please. Just drop it."

The silence lasted a block before the younger brother shifted in his seat and spoke. "Then we can get things ready, so dad can take care of it as soon as he gets back. Do you know where Jason's body is?"

Sometimes Dean really wished his brother would shut up — but he had to admit he had a point. Preparing everything so John could waltz in and destroy the thing meant they could do something other than sitting on their hands.

"Not exactly," he admitted. "They were at this farm they used to hang at. She told me where she thinks it is, what some of the buildings look like, but that's about it. Most of those dirt roads don't have names."

"Then let's find it. It's only like four; we've got a lot of light left."

The stoplight before them flicked to yellow; he brought the car to a stop and looked over at Sam. The kid was watching him expectantly, and when their gazes met he grinned encouragingly. Dean sighed in mock irritation, but to tell the truth he could have hugged Sam for giving him an option to act on.

Well, not _hugged._ It had to be more manly, not some scene from a _Lifetime_ movie — maybe he'd let him try beer or something.

"It's gonna take us a bit of time to get out there," he said gruffly. "We'll go tomorrow morning. Sunday's a good time not to find a ghost."

Sam nodded and looked out the window as the light turned green. "You think they'll be okay 'til dad gets home? I mean, I don't like them and they probably should be in jail, but they didn't deserve this."

Dean could only shake his head. Someone had been attacked every day; he knew the pattern wasn't going to stop until JJ had his revenge on everyone who'd been present that night — and maybe he was on that list now too, for protecting Mariah. Ghosts saw in black and white when it came to things like that.

What really sucked — well, other than being forced to sit on the bench while people were dying — was that he couldn't even warn them about what was coming. Those three jocks were as likely to kiss him as listen to him, and Brandi would just think he was insane.

"This frickin' sucks," he muttered as he started to turn onto their road. Then his eyes widened. "You have _got_ to be kidding me!"

He wrenched the Impala straight, driving through the intersection instead of taking the right.

"What? What's wrong?" Sam demanded, looking around wildly.

"That was Ms. Martin's car in front of our house. Guess she's sick of waiting for dad to call her."

The thirteen-year-old twisted in his seat to look back, but they were already past the intersection. "Think she saw us?"

"Dunno. But we're gonna drive a while, I think. Hell, like you said, we've still got daylight left."

Sam grinned. "And we've got lighter fluid and salt in the back."

"We're not hunting," Dean said sternly, though he couldn't help it when his mouth turned up just a little at the corners. "Now you keep an eye out for a blue VW Golf; I want to know if she follows us. And get the map out."

Sam had always been a good navigator, and it didn't take him long to find a spot on the map that fit Mariah's vague directions. His search, though, gave Dean time enough to wonder if the history teacher would be calling Social Services on them before Pastor Jim sprung their dad. It wouldn't be the first time they'd had to make a quick escape to a new town — but John had always been in charge when it happened. Dean really didn't want to have to make that decision for them. He couldn't legally check Sam out of school anyway, which meant no records and a lot of trouble down the line.

An hour and a Blue Öyster Cult tape later they were out in the farmlands. Dean was busy looking for the combination of a tumble-down barn and open silo. Sam was alternating between the search and the map as he navigated them down gravel and dirt back roads, only rarely driving out onto paved roads that weren't what Mariah had described.

Another hour and an Iron Maiden tape later they were both getting bored. There were a lot of farms out here, and most of them were still in business. An abandoned field with just a barn and a silo but no house was not the easiest thing to find.

"Turn left in half a mile," Sam said tiredly.

"How far to wherever you're taking us?" he asked, checking the gas gauge.

"Not far, like less than a mile or so."

"Mmm, okay. This is our last stop. We need gas, I need food, and I think we both need a break." He glanced up at the overcast sky. "Anyway, it'll be dark soon."

"Yeh, I'm hungry," Sam yawned as he folded the map. "Didn't think it would take this long."

"That's hunting for you — lots of boring searching and waiting, then a fight for your life. You've just got to learn patience." He turned onto the one-lane dirt road, guiding the Impala between two fields. The one on the left was crammed with lush green stalks of corn growing twice the height of the Impala. The other field was a mess of mud and wild grass standing as high as their windows. "Dad probably would've figured out some way to narrow this down, though . . . "

He trailed off speculatively as he spotted two structures ahead: one squat and rectangular, the other tall and round.

"That's it," Sam breathed. "It's got to be. Dirt road, abandoned field, barn, silo — it all fits."

"You might be right." Dean squinted down the road as he drove a little faster, the Impala bouncing over the rough terrain. By the time they reached the end of the dead-end road Sam was expressing certainty and he was almost ready to agree. The details were right, even to the barely noticeable blackened square of ground where a farmhouse probably once stood. There were details he wanted to confirm before saying this was the place, though.

"I'm gonna check this out," he said, putting the Impala into park and shutting the engine off. "Get that iron rod from the back and stay right here, got it?"

Sam shook his head, his windblown hair becoming even more of a mess as he put a hand on the door handle. "I'll watch your back."

"Watch my back from the car," Dean ordered tersely, getting out and shooting his brother a _stay put_ glare. Sam rolled his eyes but did as he was told, unbuckling so he could stretch into the back to get the fence post. He was used to staying behind.

Dean tossed the cell phone into the passenger seat, wishing he had a nice length of iron to protect him as he started forward. They were cutting it close. He figured they had about half an hour before sunset — the shadows around him were already stretching and darkening. If this really was the place and JJ didn't want him here, he was in trouble. He'd be in even more trouble if John found out what he was doing.

Just the thought of their dad's reaction sent him straight to the trunk. He wasn't here to hunt, but going out unarmed was sheer stupidity. A handful of rock salt thrown through a ghost would buy him time to retreat. Dean shoved a lighter and matches into one pocket, a small squeeze bottle of lighter fluid in another, then grabbed the box of salt. He took a moment to scan the rest of the supplies in the trunk, but spotted nothing useful — it didn't matter than they'd had to take all the guns and knives out because they weren't any help against ghosts.

_I'm going to have to figure out a way around that,_ he decided as he closed the trunk. At least he was armed in some small way if JJ put in a twilight appearance. And if the ghost followed its apparent pattern, he was the only one in danger here, not Sam.

Soon enough he spotted empty beer cans and bottles scattered around the barn walls. It was a good sign. Jogging quickly over to the silo, he immediately found the detail Mariah had given him: spray-painted initials marking just how high up the rickety structure each jock had dared to climb. The highest mark was near the top, and Dean found himself shaking his head in sympathy with JJ.

"Yeh man, I agree. Climbing that is really stupid."

It was easy enough to see the scene. It was ritual — football jocks came out here, they all got drunk, and then the new guy had to climb the wall. Simple, except the silo was rotting. Dean doubted some of the wood would hold Sammy's weight, much less a 190-pound football player. Even drunk, JJ had been smart enough to refuse.

"Except you've got to do stupid things to be a man." Dean shook his head in disgust. It didn't surprise him in the slightest that the other guys started flinging names, or that Jason got angry enough to throw a punch. He knew first hand the anger that would have followed, the gang mentality that would have led to five-on-one slaughter. Shadows lengthening around him, Dean turned away and walked back to the Impala.

"This is the place, Sammy," he called as he got near. "We just tell dad and..."

His attention was grabbed by a plume of dust on the dirt road, its origins hidden by the tall corn. It materialized all-too-soon into an unwelcomely familiar yellow GM truck.

"Son of a bitch," he groaned as he saw three familiar — and angry — faces behind the windshield.

**(End Chapter 8)**


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes: **Wow. Real life is messing up all my good intentions. So I'm movng, you see. From D.C. to Alabama. It's kind of consuming my life, and definitely puts writing on the back burner. It's especially frustrating since this story is so close to an end!

And yet here's chapter nine. I've stayed up late to finish it just for you:) So please forgive any silly mistakes; they were made with the best of intentions. There's really just one chapter to go and then _Haze _will be complete. I will do my best to get it written and up before my move, but unfortunately I can make no promises. Packing takes precedence!

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_**Chapter 9**_

The mammoth yellow truck hurtled down the narrow road, and for one long second Dean was convinced it was going to ram the Impala — with his brother inside. Before he could even yell Sam's name, the GM skidded to a stop slanted across the road, cutting off any possible route of escape. He could hardly afford to be relieved, though, as Greg jumped out of the driver's seat and Tom and Joel appeared around the hood. The first two were unarmed, but Joel . . .

"Oh hell." Dean backed up toward the barn, gesturing for Sam to get down out of sight. The three were so focused on him that they walked right past the car without looking, giving Dean some small relief. At least, as much as he could have while staring at the hunting rifle in Joel's hands.

"Okay, guys, lets not overreact here," he said, holding his palms out toward the three jocks. "Just calm down, okay?"

"You're not supposed to be here!" Tom yelled, his face palely contrasting with the red anger of Greg and Joel.

"And now you're not leaving!" Joel growled.

Dean continued to back up as he spoke. "Come on. The thing with JJ was an accident. I get that. No reason to say or do anything, believe me. I won't say a word."

He felt the chill of the barn's shadow fall over him, bringing him the smallest glimmer of hope. Inside he'd have a chance of survival, and when they followed him in Sam could escape. Hell, he could steal that truck so Dean could get the Impala out.

"You think we're idiots?" Greg demanded. "You got Mariah to tell you everything."

"Should've left her alone," Joel added simply as he began to raise the rifle.

Dean heard the Impala's engine rev, and for a split second he despaired that Sam was about to do something _really_ stupid . . .

... A thought that evaporated in the chill of the white/blue form shimmering into existence in front of him.

"Crap!" Dean dove to the side and rolled just as a shot rang out over his head. The insubstantial form flickered, then reformed into the most solid ghost he'd ever seen.

There was no transparency, none at all. The specter's flesh was mottled and rotting, its _Fighting Illini _shirt muddy and torn. Broken bones pierced ghostly skin and cloth, sticking gruesomely through forearm and thigh and shoulder. Another shot rang out, the bullet passing harmlessly through the apparition to dig into the barn wall. JJ disappeared, then flickered back to face the jocks. Mouth opening horribly wide — the flesh of its cheeks stretching and tearing — it howled.

It was like ripping metal. Dean dropped the salt and pressed his hands over his ears as the shriek clawed into him. He couldn't hear his own yell of pain, or the cries of the others, or even the Impala's growing engine. Only his father's training allowed him to force his head up and look for an attack.

But JJ wasn't coming for him. The spirit lurched a step forward, then another, its scream dying off as it focused on the jocks. They were all yelling. Tom, white-faced, was backing up fast, while Greg was yelling for Joel to fire again. Shots flew; their only effect was to keep Dean crawling across the ground instead of getting the hell out of Dodge.

He looked over his shoulder to the Impala, where Sam sat frozen and clutching the steering wheel. Dean gestured at him to stay where he was; the last thing he wanted was for his brother to come to JJ's attention. If someone would just tell him where the body was he could stop all this instead of crawling off like a coward. But he knew better than to imagine that he could kill JJ without that critical information.

A very human scream pierced the air. Dean looked back instinctively just in time to see JJ yank Joel into a violent embrace. Spectral strength crushed arms into ribs, and Dean hissed as he heard the crack of bones. Joel screamed again, dropping the rifle and struggling to free himself. Tom was nowhere to be seen and Greg was frozen in horror. It was up to him.

"Greg, where's JJ's body?" he yelled as he pushed himself to his feet. "Tell me and I can stop him!"

The quarterback's attention snapped from his imperiled friend, and suddenly Dean knew he'd made a mistake. Greg's eyes were wide and wild, swimming in shattered sanity. As they focused on Dean, they narrowed in uncanny certainty; then he lurched forward to grab the rifle.

"You gotta be kidding me," Dean complained as he turned and ran. _Screw helping these guys,_ he decided, _JJ can have them._

If he could just make it to the corn before Greg finished reloading he could get back to the cars and get his brother out of here. He looked back over his shoulder in time to see Greg raise the rifle. He swerved to the left — only 15 feet between him and the corn — and felt the solid ground turn sickeningly pliant under his feet.

Twisting his body and throwing his arms out was the only thing that saved him as rotten plywood gave under his weight. Even as he fell the scent of damp decay invaded his senses; cold air caressed desperate limbs. Somehow — through luck, talent, willpower or a combination of all three — he managed to throw his arms over the rapidly ascending edge of ground, stopping his fall with a painful jolt.

His muscles screamed in protest, but there was nothing beneath his feet to relieve his arms' burden. Nor did he have any hope of finding a foothold; the smell said 'subterranean' and to Dean that meant 'deep.' No sense wasting his time or strength on anything but pulling himself up to solid ground.

And then Greg was there, standing over him with madness in his eyes.

"I'm _not_ who you should be worried about!" Dean yelled as he clung to the crumbling ground. "That thing's going to come after you next!"

The jock wasn't even aiming his rifle, though the careless way he held it didn't make Dean feel any safer. Greg gestured wildly back at the barn, the rifle pointing erratically at everything and nothing. "I'll just send you down there with him, huh? Send him some frickin' fag playmate to keep him busy."

"Are you insane?" he yelled, dread clenching his stomach. Suddenly he could see it — JJ running, trying to escape and heading for the high corn, just like he had. JJ was down there, below his feet in the well. And as Greg raised a foot, he knew for certain he'd be joining the dead teenager.

Ozone electrified the air as JJ appeared behind the quarterback and pushed.

Already off-balance, Greg staggered forward, trampling Dean's arms before he pitched forward into the well. Dean desperately clung to the side, scrabbling at uneven ground as the athlete's falling body battered his. Then his hold was ripped away as desperate hands yanked him down. The last thing Dean saw before he fell was JJ's gruesome grin; he tumbled into darkness hearing Sam scream his name.

Dean had learned how to fall. It was one of many lessons John had drilled into him when he was young, though he'd never fallen this far. He did his best to curl into a ball, protecting limbs and organs — yet pain radiated through him as he hit solid ground amidst the crunch of bones. There was sudden, searing pain; he cried out and grabbed blindly at his left arm. Hot blood coated his fingers and he gasped as his fingers brushed against bone piercing flesh.

But it wasn't his bone; it was much too long and dry. It took him a few dazed moments to realize that the crunch he'd heard had nothing to do with his own body.

Greg was under him, unconscious and broken, his breathing ragged. Dean scrambled off, though there was precious little room here at the bottom of the well. As his knees pressed into the ground something hard and long cracked. Hands shaking, he dug into his pocket for his lighter and flicked it on.

Bleached bones — ribs, skull, detached blocks of spine — gleamed sullenly from the muddy ground. Swallowing down his disgust, Dean slowly pulled at the bone that had impaled the flesh of his arm. It slipped free, helped along by a fresh welling of blood that soaked through his shirt in seconds.

"Dean! Dean, are you okay?"

He looked up and barely made out the silhouette of his brother blocking out the stars above. "Sam! Get out of here before you get hurt!" he yelled as he ripped a strip off the hem of his shirt.

His brother laughed; Dean could hear relief but also a lot of barely repressed panic. "I'm going to get you out of there!"

Wrapping the makeshift bandage around his arm as best he could (which was not very well at all), Dean turned his attention to kicking the bones into a pile at the far end of the pit. "Go! I'll call you when it's safe!"

"But—"

"Go, Sam!" he yelled as he looked for more bones.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," he muttered under his breath as he found a rib. Here he was, about to barbecue bones in a hole maybe five feet across, with him and another guy taking up space. He honestly couldn't say what would be worse — letting JJ kill him or accidentally setting them all ablaze.

He had to be quick, but he knew he had to be thorough. He'd collected a healthy looking pile of bones, but there could be some under Greg, and if he missed even one then JJ was going to be all sorts of pissed, but not so vanquished.

Glancing up, he caught sight of his brother. "I mean it, Sammy!" he yelled as he gingerly rolled Greg over. Trying to ignore the broken way the quarterback's body moved, Dean scoured the ground for any hint of white bone in the wavering illumination of the lighter. Throwing what he found onto the pile, he then reached into his pockets for the salt.

Salt that he didn't have. Green eyes widened and he looked up to where Sam still lingered against orders. "The salt! I must have dropped it up there!"

"I'm on it!" The shaggy silhouette disappeared.

Heart hammering, Dean turned back to Greg. He had to get him as close to the wall and as far from the bones as possible. He knew he shouldn't be touching him at all, or at least he had to be extremely careful — the problem was, he didn't have the time. He did as best he could, rolling the jock onto his side against the rounded wall of earth and then digging the lighter fluid out of his pocket along with a book of matches.

"Come on, Sammy," he prayed as he drenched the bones in the flammable liquid.

The temperature in the well plummeted. Dean dodged, instinctively moving away from the presence he felt without seeing. It didn't matter; there simply was not enough room for him to evade the arms that pinned his to the wall. Icy dead flesh seared his wrists as the rest of JJ flickered into view.

Dean kicked out hard at JJ's knees, but the blow sailed straight through. The specter grinned — the corners of its mouth ragged from the feasting of rats — and closed a freezing hand around his neck.

"Sam!" he managed to cry before the air was crushed from his throat. Dean struggled fiercely, kicking and shoving with his one free hand. But each blow passed right through; JJ's form flickered a little, but the killing pressure of those hands never relented. Dean dropped the useless lighter as his body began to weaken and a terribly cold heaviness settled in his chest.

Something small hit his upturned face; then it happened again. Suddenly a shower of hard particles cascaded down — and the choking hand was gone. Dean fell to his knees, gasping and retching painfully as rock salt pelted his hair.

"Dean, are you all right?"

"You're a… lifesaver," he gasped, his abused throat refusing to issue much sound. He waved up at his brother and tried again. "Toss it down."

Sam must have heard, because the box landed at the bottom of the well. Dean lunged and grabbed it, emptying all that remained directly onto the bones. His brother had dumped half of it down the well, but the salt that was left was enough to get the job done. He struck a match, ignited the whole book, and tossed it onto the bones.

Flames leapt hungrily as he threw himself back. He leaned against the wall next to Greg, heat beating against his face as the bones began to blacken. Then there was another inhuman shriek; Dean turned his face away as the flames surged high and blue, reaching up toward the night sky like a drowning man struggling for the surface of the water. Then they receded into sullen orange fire.

"Get me out of here," he breathed, finally looking up again only to be blinded by the beam of a high-power flashlight. Wincing, he threw his good arm up and blocked his eyes.

"You okay down there?" someone — not Sam — yelled down.

"Dean, hang on, we'll get you out!" his brother added, much to Dean's relief.

"Rope," he croaked. "Tie it to a car and pull me up."

"Is Greg still… is he alive?"

It wasn't Joel (Dean knew that guy's voice well), so it had to be Tom. As loathe as he was to ask for help from the guy who'd hurt Sam, he didn't want to be stuck down here with a possibly dying quarterback either. "Yeh, but he's hurt. I'll bring him up with me."

"I'm on it," Tom yelled down. After a moment Dean realized they'd both gone, leaving him alone with the hissing pops of burning bones and Greg's labored breathes. Unable to do anything for the jock, Dean reached up and gingerly touched his neck. Even that faint contact hurt; speaking burned painfully. He knew he'd be black and blue tomorrow, no matter how much ice he used.

_If I'm gonna have marks on my neck they should be from a girl, _he thought bitterly. He was probably going to have to skip school for a few days until the bruising faded. _Then again, maybe this isn't so bad._

He heard car engines, and his concern heated right back up. He knew Sam wouldn't let that jerk touch the Impala — but that meant his baby brother was behind the wheel. "So help me Sammy, if you hurt her…"

Headlights arced out above the well and away again; then a red glow illuminated the sky above. Soon enough, a rope tumbled down and Sammy reappeared above, bathed in the glow of tail lights. "Tie it around your chest; we'll haul you out. Are you strong enough to get Greg out?"

"Of course I am," Dean growled, though in truth he was having doubts. He wasn't about to let Sam get away with questioning him, though, so he tied the rope around his chest as quickly as he could and knotted it solidly. Then he knelt and gathered Greg in his arms. Knowing this was going to hurt, and hurt badly, he called up "okay!"

He'd known it was a bad idea, but didn't realize how much until the car began to drag him up and Greg's weight tried to pull him down. The rope pulled up tight under his arms as he was dragged slowly up the well, digging into his flesh and threatening to rip him in two. Or at least that's what it felt like. Closing his eyes, he groaned and willed Tom to step on the gas.

An eternity later he was stretched out on the ground, still holding onto Greg and hearing his brother yell at Tom to stop. All Dean wanted to do was breathe and maybe throw up, but he settled for rolling Greg off as gently as he could.

"Dean, you okay?" a breathless Sammy asked, kneeling next to him and picking at the knot.

"Fine," he whispered, shoving his brother's hands away and using the little bit of slack he'd left to shove the rope down to his waist. "You did good, Sam."

"Not good enough." The youngest Winchester's tone was subdued and even a little frightened, causing Dean to look up sharply.

"Hey, I mean it," he said with a little more force, pushing himself up to a sitting position. "You did real good."

Sam shook his head, but didn't say anything more as Tom rushed over to check on his friend.

"Hey Tom, you got a cell phone?" Dean asked, wishing he had something to soothe his aching throat.

The jock looked up, obviously shaken, and nodded.

"Good," he rasped. "You call 911, get them out here. Lay him flat until they do. Can you handle that?"

Another nod.

"Okay then. They're not gonna believe what happened. Tell him y'all were out here and Greg fell down the well. Joel too, if he's still around." Dean captured Tom's gaze and held it with a will the jock seemed unable or unwilling to break. "You leave us out of it, or I will tell them exactly what happened to JJ. Understood?"

"Y-yeh, understood."

"Good. C'mon, Sam." He got to his feet, stepping around the rope that fell to the ground.

They walked to the car silently — Dean's throat hurt too much to speak anymore, but Sam was surprisingly subdued. Wordlessly the 13-year-old took out the first aid kit and approached, pointing at the badly bound wound. "Let me take care of that."

Dean paused uncertainly, but finally nodded. "Don't want to get blood all over the seat," he said, holding out his arm.

Sam knew what he was doing; soon enough the wound was treated and bound with a neat white bandage. Then they got into the Impala and Dean revved the engine before pulling out. Neither of them looked back.

**(end chapter 9)**


	10. Chapter 10

**Title: **Haze

**Author: **C Cawthorne

_Note:_ My humblest apologies for the inexcusable delay between the last chapter and this. I haven't had much time for writing lately, though I tried twice to get this chapter done only to stop in disgust. It was just awful, and I pretty much gave up. But, amazingly, some people are still reading this story, and more amazingly a few have recently left me feedback hoping for more. That astounded me so much that I tried once again to write, and for some reason, this time, it worked.

So here it is, _Haze,_ chapter 10, and the story is still not quite done. I think one more chapter will do it, and I'm going to take advantage of this apparent melting of my writer's block to try to finish it up. Thank you, again, to all my readers and especially you wonderful folk who left me feedback, because this wouldn't have been written without your interest.

As always, I don't own Dean, Sam, John, Jim or even the Impala. I wish I did. The show still owns me, and I foretell a summer of suspense and angst following next week's finally. Kripke, please have mercy!

* * *

The shabby, crouching rental house had never looked as good as it did that night, looming in the Impala's headlights. When they got inside and bolted the door, both of them made the rounds of the rooms, looking for danger, checking the salt lines. Normally Dean performed the duty on his own, but tonight Sam joined him without a word.

When it was safe, when they both _knew _it was safe, Dean let himself collapse on his bed, barely able to spare the energy to pull his ruined shirt off. Faint lines of rope burn were already appearing angrily on his chest and under his arms, and he was certain he had them on his back too. And his throat, of course, was throbbing.

"Hey Dean," Sammy said, coming in from the bathroom with Neosporin, gauze and painkillers in his hands.

"Bring 'em over," he whispered. It hurt to say even one of the words, but it wasn't like he was going to let his little brother play nursemaid.

"Let me get your back first," the thirteen-year-old said, reading his mind and gesturing for him to sit up. "Then you can do the rest."

Dean just nodded, regretting even that bit of movement and dreading the thought of sitting again. He did it, but not easily, and it hurt so much that he didn't even care when Sammy ended up putting medicine and bandages on every bit of broken skin. By the time he lay back down, a double dose of painkillers inside him and an ice pack wrapped in washcloths on his neck, he could barely manage to open his eyes and look at his hovering brother.

"Thanks, Sam," he whispered before the very welcome darkness of sleep stole his consciousness.

"Dean! What in hell happened?"

He woke with a jolt that sent pain through his body. He'd tried to sit up – an automatic response when his father used that tone – before he'd even truly woken up.

His _father. . . ._

Dean's eyes flew open and he looked, really _looked._ John loomed next to his bed, Pastor Jim a few feet behind him wearing a worried expression. On the twin bed next to his, Sammy was rubbing his eyes and blinking, still half asleep. The clock on the rickety table between them read 3:14.

"Dad!" he croaked, trying to push himself up with his uninjured arm.

"Why haven't you been answering the phone?" John demanded, his brow furrowing angrily as he examined his older son. "What did–"

"John, let the boy answer," the priest said quietly, stepping forward and putting a hand on John's shoulder. "He's hurt."

"I can see that," John growled at his friend before returning his dark gaze to Dean. "Well?"

"We didn't mean for it to happen," blurted Sammy before Dean could force even one word out. "We were just researching, so you could kill it when you got back."

He wanted to groan but didn't, partly because it would hurt too much and partly because he thought their dad was going to kill him. Sam meant well, but it was not the right way to explain.

"Kill it? You went on a hunt without me?" John's voice had gone quiet, very quiet, and that was a lot worse than the yelling. There was only one path left to him now – the truth, unvarnished with any excuses and ending with an acknowledgment of his mistakes. Dean did his best to sit up straight, looked up at his dad, and spoke.

"There was a ghost haunting the school," he reported, his voice strained but as neutral as he could make it. "I was with a girl it attacked; that's how I found out about it. I had to figure out what its pattern was to keep Sammy safe. We learned something about the area the body might be in, and since people were getting attacked every day I figured I'd try to find out exactly where it was. I shouldn't have done it; it was stupid. You'd have found it without putting Sammy in danger."

"Hey, it was my idea too," his brother interrupted angrily, but another glare from John silenced them both.

"You went after a ghost without me," their father stated, his voice still chillingly quiet. The explosion was coming; Dean could sense it hovering like a thunderstorm in a Midwestern sky. And sure enough, the storm broke.

"You never, _ever_ put your brother in that kind of danger!" John grabbed his unbandaged arm and shook him, eliciting a hiss of pain. "You lay low, you stay here, and you _wait for me._ You understand?"

Dean closed his eyes and nodded, trying to fight down the nausea roiling in his stomach from each shake. "Yes sir."

"We couldn't lay low!" his brother shouted angrily. Dean heard him jump to his feet and he exhaustedly forced his eyes open. Sammy was glaring up at their father with the fiercest expression Dean had ever seen him wear. "We couldn't! School wasn't safe, and if we stayed away we'd get into trouble with the teachers and then we'd have to move again and I don't want to move!"

"I think that's enough for right now," Jim said quickly, stepping between father and son. "You all need to get more sleep. You too, John, don't tell me otherwise."

Their father glowered at his friend, so obviously upset that Dean wanted to close his eyes again. After a long moment, John nodded. "Fine. But I expect a full report later. And why the hell didn't you answer the phone?"

Dean looked at Sammy, a bit mystified, then looked up at John. "We didn't hear it?" was the only answer he could offer. It was an awful admission, sleeping through such a racket, but obviously they had.

John rolled his eyes and walked out. Jim looked at both of them, concerned. "Are you hurt, Sammy?"

"Just Dean."

"Let me see." The priest sat down on the edge of the bed and, after a grudging nod from Dean, quickly assessed the teenager's wounds. "Not too bad. Nothing broken, I see. That's good. You did a good job on the bandages. You'll be pretty sore in the morning, though."

"Yeh, don't I know it," Dean murmured, laying back down.

Jim smiled, the expression lighting his careworn face, and nodded. "Get some sleep, and don't worry about your father. He's been worried sick for the entire drive back when neither of you answered his calls. He thought the worst."

"He still shouldn't have yelled at Dean," Sam said rebelliously.

"It's okay; I'd yell at me too," he whispered. "I messed up."

"No you didn't," the priest said, cutting off Sam's protest. "You protected your brother the best you could. Give John some time and he'll see that. Now, both of you, get some sleep. And call me if you need anything."

Dean nodded, and beside him Sam finally relented and got back into bed. Jim smiled, murmured something under his breath, and switched the lights off as he left the room.

"Sam?" Dean whispered after a moment.

"Yeh?"

"Dad's right, but . . . thanks."

There was a pause, and then his brother spoke, his voice somber. "No, he's not. But I won't say anything to make it worse."

Dean sighed, but nodded. It was good enough for now.

* * *

Contrary to all that Dean had expected, he and Sam were allowed to sleep until they woke naturally. Sammy even rose almost a good two hours before the call of nature finally forced Dean out of bed and onto his feet. Once there he very nearly fell right back down, as every single muscle in his body cried out in protest. But sometimes pain could be overridden, and after almost eleven hours of sleep Dean's priority was the bathroom.

Once he finished with the most pressing needs he decided on a shower. He should, of course, be reporting to John, but the smell of decay from the well still clung to his body, and his skin crawled from dried blood (and worse). That meant the bandages had to go, and he moved in front of the mirror to make sure he got them all off.

"Well crap," he muttered when he saw his reflection. The bruises from Friday night's beating were now joined by angry red rope burns, and a necklace of sullen reds and browns circled the front half of his neck. He supposed it could have been worse – without the ice his neck would probably be solid purple. Still, there was no way he could go back to school for the next few days. No one would believe that all this damage came from that one fight.

Angry with himself, he finished stripping down and stepped into the shower. His wounds stung, but the hot water was heaven for his aching muscles, and he stayed in for as long as he could stand it. Once he was finished, he redressed the burns and his shoulder the best he could, pulled on some clean clothes, and went out to meet his fate.

He'd heard signs of life in the living room and found his brother, father, and Pastor Jim in the middle of the weekly weapons check. Guns (and gun parts), knives, bows . . . it looked like the entire contents of his dad's weapons locker, plus what they had here in the house, plus a few of Jim's belongings. It was an impressive arsenal.

Sam offered him a tentative smile and Jim gave him a wave, but John just looked at him for a moment. "Had anything to eat yet?" he finally grunted.

"No sir."

"Get something, then join us."

"Yes sir."

Grateful, he retreated to the kitchen to nuke a frozen sausage and egg biscuit concoction. Sammy hated them, but Dean didn't think they were any worse than the real ones they bought at gas stations. Devouring it in a few quick mouthfuls, he carefully washed the grease off his hands – the last thing he needed was for John to complain that the shotgun smelled like sausage – and returned to the living room. There he sat, picked up the silver, pearl-handled handgun that he was particularly fond of, and started dismantling it, trying to ignore the fact that he was sore from his head down to his ankles.

"Up to talking?" John asked.

"Yes sir," he answered. His throat definitely hurt, but not so badly that he couldn't report what had happened. After all, there were things dad really needed to know. With a minimum of words he described the attack under the bleachers, then what they'd discovered about the other victims (including JJ), Friday's brawl, and finally his conversation with Mariah. Throughout it all he remained relatively confident – after all, they hadn't really broken any rules up through Saturday afternoon. John interrupted the narrative with some terse inquiries about their investigation, and even, just maybe, looked impressed. Dean wasn't so sure he'd seen that last bit, though; it could have been his imagination.

It was only when he reached the part where they decided to go find the farm that he hesitated. "I need to tell you about Ms. Martin before I go on," he said, putting aside the now clean handgun.

John arched an eyebrow and Jim looked at him in curiosity. The priest had already given Dean a few slightly stern looks regarding Mariah, but nothing worse than he normally gave when it came to Dean's interest in girls. "Who's Ms. Martin?" he asked.

"One of my teachers," Sam supplied, a revelation that earned Dean another raised eyebrow, this one from Pastor Jim.

"Don't tell me–"

"No, definitely no. I mean she's kind of hot, but no," he interrupted with an emphatic shake of his head. Jim laughed, but John just gave him a look that said _Get on with it._

"Like Sammy said, she's a teacher, and she's . . . kind've been on our case. Worried that Sam missed a few days, you know? She's been wanting to talk to you all week, and she's been, you know, getting pretty impatient since you haven't called her." Dean shrugged, acknowledging their dad's inability to call her and ignoring Sam's not-so-subtle hints to shut up about Ms. Martin. He wished he could, but John needed to know that he would have to go charm her into thinking they were one happy, normal family.

"Anyway, when we were coming back Saturday afternoon we saw she was waiting in the driveway, so we couldn't go home. And since we had a lot of light left . . . well, that's why we went to find the farm. And when we found it there was still plenty of light, and since the ghost only appeared in the dark or at night I figured we were safe. We should've left right then, I know," he said, forestalling the outburst he could see was about to escape his father.

"We were going to leave," Sammy interrupted, a hint of defiance in his voice, "but we couldn't. Three of the football players came – and they didn't follow us, I would have seen them; they must have come from a different direction – and they blocked us in. That's when the ghost came. It wasn't even interested in me or Dean, just the other guys. It never even looked at me, and it only went after Dean because he was going to salt and burn it."

There wasn't much he could add to that, so Dean simply nodded and waited for their father's verdict.

John continued to clean a sawed-off shotgun, but Dean could tell he was angry from the set of his jaw and the slow deliberation of his hands as he cleaned the barrels.

"That was stupid of you," he finally declared. Looking up, he fixed his eldest son with his dark gaze. "You could have gone to a movie of the mall or the fing park instead of going out to that farm. It's a miracle that you weren't killed, that your brother wasn't killed. You understand me?"

It looked like Sam was going to protest again, but Pastor Jim's hand on his shoulder kept him quiet, much to Dean's relief. "Yes sir. I screwed up. Won't happen again."

John nodded. He was obviously still angry, but he had control of it. "Okay then, this teacher. Any way you're going to be able to pass off those bruises as something you got in the fight?"

He hesitated, knowing better than to look at his brother. He knew exactly what Sam wanted him to do – lie, say yes, don't make dad worried. But he couldn't do that. "Honestly, sir, I don't know. The other teachers, yes, but she's smart and she'll probably remember I didn't get strangled. And she'll know the guys I got into the fight with are all in the hospital. She'll put it together."

"Dean," Sam hissed, but one look from John silenced him.

After a long moment their dad nodded. "Time to move on. Pack your things. We'll leave after I get your records from the school tomorrow."

"Dad, no, I want to stay!" Sam protested, dropping the blade sharpener he'd been holding. "Just talk to her, tell her a story. You can make her believe you!"

John shook his head. "Sorry, Sammy. Damage is done; too much to explain. We move on."

Dean shot his brother an apologetic work that Sam didn't even see. Near tears, Sammy got up and left the room, closing the bedroom door behind him.

John sighed. "Could you talk to him later?" he asked Jim.

The priest nodded. "Of course. But he'll be upset for a while. Be patient with him."

John nodded and looked at Dean, silently searching for any hint of rebellion in his oldest. He found none; Dean just nodded, picked up another gun, and started dismantling it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Title: **Haze

**Author: **C Cawthorne

_Note: _Final chapter. Wasn't sure if it was going to happen. It's much harder to write this wrap up than it was to write the hunt, the mystery, the action. I think I've found where my strengths lie and what I need to work on!

Thank you so much, everyone who has read this and put up with my insanely long bout of writer's block. I feel pretty humbled that _Haze_ has been so well received, and am still amazed at the number of people who've read it. It wouldn't have been finished without your feedback. Hopefully I'll be writing more, and when I do I'll add it here.

And of course, thank you Kripke for creating these beautiful boys and their world, and for allowing me to play in your sandbox without suing me – even though I do want to simultaneously kill you and hug you for the season three finale. _sob_

* * *

Sammy refused to speak to him the rest of the day, and that obstinate silence stretched into the night. Dean tried to win a few words out of him as they packed, but his brother wouldn't even look at him. Instead, he finished stuffing his scant possessions into his duffle bag and then sat crosslegged on his bed, defiantly opened his history book, and began to read.

Knowing it was hopeless, Dean moved on to another impossible front – their father. He couldn't stop them from moving, nor would he, because he agreed they had to go. Too much had happened to explain; there was simply no way that everyone involved in the case were going to stay quiet. And even if Greg, Joel, and Tom didn't talk, the police might still check into what had happened.

No, things could unravel very badly. They had to go, but maybe there was one thing he could do for Sammy.

"Hey dad?" he asked, voice raspy as he helped John pack up the weapons.

"Yeh?" his father grunted, not looking up from his task.

"Could you let Sammy go to school tomorrow morning so he can say goodbye to his friends?"

John glanced at him, exasperation warring with amusement in his eyes. "Think that'll make it all better, do you? Sam should know by now that we're going to have to move sometimes no matter what the plan used to be."

"He knows that, sir," Dean said. "But he made some friends this time. He's got gym second period; he could see everyone he needs to by the time you get those records, and then you could pull him out."

His dad grunted again. "What about you?"

Dean shrugged. "I'm ready to go whenever."

"Huh." John looked at his son a moment longer, then went back to packing. "I'll think about it. How're you doing?"

"Good enough."

"Up for driving tomorrow?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. Finish up here. Jim should be back from the hospital soon; we'll grab some dinner." John reached out, squeezed his shoulder briefly, and disappeared into the back bedroom where all his research materials remained unpacked.

Dean watched him go, so surprised that he didn't even notice the pain his dad had aggravated in his wounded shoulder. He wouldn't fool himself into thinking that John approved of what he'd done – that he'd hunted without him – but _maybe_ he was proud of the results. He blinked, for the first time really thinking about what had happened. He'd been focused so completely on the negative that he only now just realized it – he and Sam had sent a ghost packing with no help from anyone. Even as he closed the ammo boxes, he found himself grinning.

"Pretty bad-ass, I gotta admit," he murmured, much of the gloom he'd been feeling since last night slipping away.

* * *

Much to Dean's surprise, his brother got to go to school the next morning. Both John and Sam left before he woke, so he didn't even know if his dad was changing his mind about moving. He doubted it; John changing his mind was about as likely as Dean ditching Metallica for New Kids on the Block.

Jim was in the kitchen, where the remnants of a real breakfast sat warm on the stove top. The sight – and more importantly, the heavenly scent – made Dean pause, and the priest smiled and started filling up a plate for him.

"Thought you could use something that wasn't microwaved," he said, handing him a heaping breakfast of eggs, grits, and bacon. "How are you feeling?"

"Sore, but pretty good," Dean answered after swallowing a few large mouthfuls. "Mmm, this is fan_tastic_. So how's Sammy?"

"Still upset," Jim said, sitting down across from him and resting his forearms on the table. "That was a good thing you did, getting your dad to take him for a few hours."

Dean shrugged and kept shoveling food into his mouth, but inside he was pleased.

"Anyway," the priest continued, "he's going to sign you two out, pick up Sam at lunch, and then y'all will be on your way. Think you'll be ready?"

He nodded. "Not anything left to pack other than pots and pans, and we're not getting the deposit on this place back so it's not like I have to clean the bathroom or anything. Is there any more bacon?"

Jim chuckled and slid the last two pieces onto Dean's plate, then gave him the rest of the eggs and grits as well. "No point in leftovers, right? Now if you don't need me, I've got to get to work on a sermon. I owe the man who filled in for me yesterday."

He nodded, then looked up at him quizzically. "Why're you sticking around, anyway? I mean, it's fine, it's just. . . ."

"Weird?" Jim supplied, then smiled wryly when Dean shrugged. "Y'all are moving to Blue Earth. Your dad figures you might actually finish your senior year if I can keep you out of trouble when he's gone."

"Really?" he asked, surprised, around a mouthful of grits.

"Yes. So behave, or I'll make you an altar boy," the priest said mildly, a twinkle of mischief in his dark eyes as Dean choked. "I'll be in John's room if you need me."

By the time he stopped choking, the priest had disappeared. Dean finished his breakfast, then quickly washed his plate and the pots and pans that Jim had used. Once they were dry, he chucked them in a box and then parked himself on the couch. He deserved a few hours of television before the long drive.

Even though daytime TV sucked about as badly as a werewolf bite, the hours flew by, and when he realized it was past eleven he levered himself back onto his feet. He took the clattering, half-empty box of pans out to the Impala, then returned for the TV – he wasn't going to let that precious commodity slide around in the back of John's truck. Porting it outside, he was carefully securing it in the trunk when he heard a car pull up behind him. He knew immediately that it wasn't his dad just from the sound of the engine. And sure enough, it was a navy blue VW Golf.

"Oh hell," was all he could think to say as Ms. Martin got out, her motions swift and noticeably controlled.

"Dean, I need to know what . . ." Her demand trailed off into silence as she stared at his bruised neck, and her control slipped to reveal concerned alarm. "What happened? Did your father–"

"No ma'am," he interrupted her as firmly as he could with his injured vocal chords. "Don't you accuse him of anything. He's a great man."

He'd seen her look of skepticism on the faces of so many others over the years that he was heartily sick of it. "Seriously, ma'am, don't even think of it. My dad's never laid a finger on either of us. He does the best he can, and that might not fit your definition of what's good but that don't mean you're right."

She didn't look surprised at his tone, a tone that would have merited detention or worse on school grounds. Neither did she look cowed.

"You've got a circle of bruises around your neck that wasn't there Friday, and Monday your father is yanking you and your brother out of school," she stated, catching and holding his gaze with dark eyes that were much too similar to his father's for comfort. "Any person with even a hint of intelligence would wonder if there was a connection. And I have a duty to report suspected abuse, even if I'm not your teacher."

Dean did his best not to clench his hands into fists, but his fingers twitched as she threatened him with one of his worst fears. "I got into another fight Saturday. My dad didn't get back 'til Sunday morning. He got a better job. _That's_ where we're going," he said, his voice low and strained as he struggled to keep control of his anger.

"Who did you fight with?" she asked, her tone cool, her gaze analyzing him and weighing him just like his father had yesterday.

_Crap._ He couldn't say the obvious, because she would put two and two together in a heartbeat. "I went to a bar."

"You're seventeen."

He rolled his eyes. "Please."

"You went to a bar and left Sam home alone," she parried, her eyebrow raised in challenge.

"He was at a friend's house. That Japanese kid he's working on your project with," he shot back. "I get to have fun sometimes, you know."

"And getting into bar fights is fun?"

"Yes!" he declared, throwing his hands up in frustration. "Give me a break, lady. Sammy's the scholar, okay? Not me. I'm sorry I don't fit in with your whole 'go to an Ivy League' expectations. That's not me."

She exhaled hard and turned her head away, studying the shabby rental house with its peeling paint and cracked walkway. Dean watched her as she stared at it, knowing she was taking in every dilapidated detail. After what seemed like a minor eternity, she looked at him once more.

"I've known too many kids like you, Dean. You have your life all figured out right when everything should be opening up." She crossed her arms in front of her. "If I've misjudged your father, I'm sorry. But one thing I do know for certain is that you've got a lot of potential, and you're not using it. And in five, ten years tops, you'll be regretting it."

The teacher's words touched such a deep chord that Dean buried them, so quickly and thoroughly that he barely registered her meaning. "All due respect, we're fine ma'am."

She looked so doubtful that he started praying for his dad to get back home _now_. Salvation came from a different source, though, as Pastor Jim's mild voice called out from the front door. "Everything all right out here?"

"This is Ms. Martin, from the school," Dean explained, his shoulders relaxing now that he had backup.

Jim nodded his understanding and walked forward, extending his hand in greeting. "Jim Murphy. Are you one of Dean's teachers?"

"No, one of Sam's," she answered, shaking his hand with an uncertain expression. "Nancy Martin. Are you their priest?"

Jim chuckled and shook his head. "No, just a family friend. It's nice of you to come out and check on them. Unless . . . was there a problem withdrawing them?"

"No," she answered, sizing him up so thoroughly that Dean could have mistaken her for a cop. "To tell the truth, I'm concerned about how sudden this is, and how bad he looks."

Dean sighed. "I already told her about the bar fight," he said grudgingly, as if the last thing he wanted to do was bring the incident up in front of a priest.

"Ah, that," Jim said, shooting the teenager a long-suffering look before returning his attention to Ms. Martin. "Dean can get into things without thinking. But you don't need to worry. He's learned his lesson, and he didn't suffer any serious harm."

It was absurdly easy to read her doubt, but all she could do was nod. "That's all I can ask," she conceded, then turned to Dean.

"Please think about what I said, Dean. I hope you do well at your new school." With a stiff nod, she turned away, got back into her VW, and drove off.

"Thought she'd never leave," Dean exhaled, closing the Impala's trunk and leaning back against it.

"Mmm. I can see what you see in her," Jim commented, a smile quirking the corners of his mouth.

"Please. She's annoying."

"No, she's concerned." The priest turned to face him, his expression sobering. "It caused you a little trouble, yes, but the world would be a better place if more people acted like her."

"Huh. Well, let her be concerned for someone who needs it," Dean declared.

Jim just smiled, patted him on his uninjured arm, and returned to the house. Fifteen minutes later, John and Sam returned bearing burgers and fries. Ten minutes after that they were all in their cars, Sammy insisting on riding with Jim.

As the Impala rumbled down the road, Dean looked in the rear view mirror without regret. One more sucky house, one more little town, one more annoying school – he wasn't going to miss any of it.

Reaching into the box of tapes, he grabbed the first one that caught his eye and pushed it into the stereo. Cranking up the volume, he rested his left arm in the rolled-down window and settled in for the drive to Blue Earth as Joe Perry's crunchy guitar fought the sound of the wind in his ears.

_We all live on the edge of town_

_Where we all live ain't a soul around_

_People start a-comin'_

_All we do is just a-grin_

_We gotta move out_

_'Cause the city's movin' in_

_I said we gotta move out_

_'Cause the city's movin' in_

_Yes we do. . . ._

**-the end-**


End file.
